thank u, next

I'm at the Riverside Studios and I'm not happy about it.

Not a great start to an evening, but I have my reasons, and you get to hear all about it.

Well, some of it. Because, here's the thing: it involves something that hasn’t been announced yet. A super cool theatre thing. Which kicks off tonight.

Problem is, by the time I found out about my inclusion in this super cool thing, I'd already bought my ticket to see Persona at the newly reopened Riverside Studios.

So obviously, first thing I did was to go to the Riverside website to see what their returns policy is.

Scroll-scroll-scroll to the bottom of the page. Click on the Ticketing Policy link. And... nothing. Just a note that content will be coming soon.

Fine. Okay then.

I just needed to send a nice email to the box office and they'd sort me out. It's a new venue. They'll all be on high alert for customer service.

I found my confirmation email, and yup - there was a handy dandy link to a customer service email address. Perfect.

I sent my email, asking for an exchange.

Less than a minute later, I got a reply.

Score!

Except no. It was not a reply. It was a bounceback.

The email address did not exist.

Okay, well. Fine. No matter. Because I was pretty sure I also spotted a link to a box office email.

I clicked on that, copied and pasted the resulting email address. Dug out my request, and forwarded it to the new address.

A few seconds later, up poppped another bounceback.

Well... shit.

Trying not to panic, I went back to the Riverside's website, and clicked through to their contact us page. There were a few options, but the most relevant looked like the generic 'contact' email. So I pinged my email over to that one and held my breath.

And held.

And held.

No bounceback.

Hu-bloody-rah.

The next day, that is, this morning, I realised I hadn't had a reply. Not even an automatic one saying that my email had been received.

I double-checked my inbox just to be sure.

Nope. Nothing.

So obviously I did the sensible thing and took my pleas over to Twitter.

Polite. Charming almost.

When the reply came, it hit straight into my DMs.

When I saw the notification pop up on my phone, I wasn't unduly surprised. I've had a fair number of theatres on this marathon sorting my problems via the old DM. Doing me favours that they wouldn't want getting about. Even an artistic director giving the go-ahead to book me in under a young person offer despite me, well, not being a young person.

But there was nothing like that waiting for me.

"Hi there," it read. "Box office hours are Monday - Friday 12:00 - 20:00."

Followed up by a phone number.

I stared at the messages, unsure what to do.

Eventually I decided to respond. "Okay, but can I contact you *not* on the phone?"

I mean, surely there must be a way? This is 2020. Just having a phone number is like... I don't know... only offering fax as a method of communication. Who even phones people anymore? I certainly don't. And not just because of my crippling social anxiety. It's just so inconvenient. I can't call people from work. What am I going to do? Sit around at my desk waiting and waiting for someone to pick up my call, and then spelling out my surname ten times to the person on the end, and then waiting and waiting for them to sort out my problem.

Excuse my language when I say: fuck that Boomer nonsense.

In all my travels, I have not come across a single theatre that can't handle this sort of thing via email. Even the smallest fringe venues manage to figure out my issues via written missive, accompanied by an instruction to sort any extra finances when I go in to pick up my tickets.

To say I'm shook is an understatement.

A few minutes later, I got my reply.

Again, I was asked to call. But, as a concession, another email address was offered.

With a groan of annoyance, I sent my fourth email to the Riverside Studios.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

By mid-afternoon I was beginning to panic.

I could not afford to not use a £12.50 ticket.

Because, no, I didn't put in a press request. I should have done. Maybe then they would have replied to my emails.

The minutes ticked on. I refreshed my emails, just in case I'd missed it.

The clock wound its way towards the time I would need to leave in order to get to my thing on time.

Nothing.

So that was it. I had to go to the Riverside Studios.

And here I bloody am.

Feeling fucking annoyed about the whole thing, if I'm perfectly honest.

And I don't want to be all "don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre," but like: don't they know who I am, I literally write about the experience of going to the theatre? I link to my damn blog from my Twitter handle.

I told them in my email I was… involved in some theatre… stuff.

I mean, there is something to be said for a venue that treats everyone the same, regardless of whether that person is going to write it up afterwards or no. But like... that only works when everyone is getting the same nice treatment. Not being ignored.

Egalitarianism sucks when everyone is in the same shitty boat.

But anyway, the studios are lined with huge glass windows. presumably looking over the river, but it's 7pm in January, so it's too dark to actually see anything.

Inside the door there's a chalkboard sign saying that dogs are welcome.

"Yeah, but bloggers aren't," I huff to myself as I take a photo.

I go in.

It's massive in here.

The space spreads out into a vast cavern of emptiness. White walls. Concrete floor. Industrial pipes running across the ceiling. Not an aesthetic I'm super into, if I'm honest. I find it hard to get into factory-chic. I spent a good chunk of my childhood in one.

Not in a bad way, you understand. I wasn't forced to sew trainers in some grim sweatshop. I just mean, my parents were very busy, you know. And most nights I was doing my homework in the office, waiting for one of them to finish up and take me home. Sometimes this involved sleeping on the sofa until the early hours of the morning. Most of the time it meant having free rein to practice my rollerblading on the fantastically flat floors after the machines were shut down for the night.

Anyway, what I'm saying is: it's a bit bleak. Even if the walls down the other end have pictures on them.

I make my way across the empty floor towards the box office, a great curving desk.

The staff are all huddled around a single computer, brows furrowed as they try to make sense of a customer's order.

"It says the ticket has been printed, but it hasn't..." one says.

Down the other end, a free box officer smiles at me and I go over to her.

"Hi, the surname's Smiles?"

Now it's the turn of this box officer's brow to furrow.

"I have the order number?" I say, turning around my phone screen to show her. I have it all prepared.

"You don't need a ticket..." says the box officer.

"Oh," I say, deflating.

More fool me. I should know better then to trust confirmation emails by now.

Double fool even, as I even read the instructions twice over to make sure I got them right. "Please print out this email and bring it with you," it said. "The QR codes below will be scanned at the venue door and you will be given access."

I'll admit, this did give me pause as the QR code is actually at the top of the email. And I also had no intention of printing it out. But thankfully, there was more: "If you are unable to print this email, please proceed to the Box Office on your arrival, give our staff member your booking reference number and your tickets will be printed for you."

Now, you know how much I love a properly printed ticket.

I'm not taking the lack of one very well.

I'm just a marathoner. Standing in front of a box office. Asking it to print a ticket for her.

"It said to come to box office?" I try, putting on my best pleading eyes.

A sweet young-faced front of houser steps forward. "No, if you have this, they'll just scan you on the door."

"Oh," I say again. "Okay. Thanks."

I have been defeated.

I take myself and my confirmation email away, crossing the great straights towards the bar. There's lots of seating down this end. Long banquettes and trendy-looking orange chairs.

I find myself an empty table and sit down.

A minute later, I'm blocked in.

A cage full of rubbish has been wheeled out and left in front of me as its carer goes off to open the door.

Twenty minutes before a show opens, with bar-service in full swing, seems like an odd time to be taking out the bins, but clearly people at the Riverside are working on a completely different plain of reality to the rest of us.

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen," comes a voice over the tannoy. "Studio Three is now open for this evening's performance of Persona, if you'd like to like your seats."

I'm quite comfy where I am now that the rubbish has been removed, so I give it another five minutes.

As the empty cages are wheeled back inside I realise something. I have no idea where Studio Three is.

I look around.

No signs of any... well... signs.

There is a line of people heading towards the door next to the box office though.

I should probably join it.

I wander over and get in line. All around me people flap around handfuls of slim tickets. Real ones. From the box office. I stare at them.

How on earth did they get those?

The front of houser on the door doesn't even look at them. "As I said, it's ninety minutes," she hollers as we file past. "No reentry. And no coming out. If you need to go to the loo, go now. You won't be able to come back in. There's no reentry. Ninety minutes."

Probably now is not a good time to ask about the existence of programmes...

Her rapped-out words follow me down the corridor and through the door into the auditorium.

Inside, the sweet face of youth is checking tickets.

Without a scanner. Or programmes.

I get out my phone again.

"K4? Back row." They pause, as a thought occurs. "K4... That's on the left. Be careful with your head, some parts are lower."

With my eyes keeping a careful watch on the ceiling, I climb the stairs and head to the back of the auditorium.

It's a simple black box space. The stage a mere slither across the front.

But above our heads, wires have been cast out like fishing lines, radiating out from a heavy object in the corner.

I squint at it.

It's no good. I need to get out my glasses.

Earth Harp. That's what it says across the front.

I look between this golden trunk and the strings above our heads.

They've turned this theatre into a musical instrument. That's pretty cool.

More people come in.

Not quite enough to fill the theatre.

As the lights dim, the row in front of me is still completely empty.

Sadly this isn't enough to compensate for the terrible rake.

The cast takes their place on set. One actor lays down on a bed and immediately disappears below the horizon of heads.

Oh well.

I let my attention drift over to the earth harp.

The musician stands before it, the wires cast out either side of him, his gloved hands resting on them as he waits for his cue.

As the deep vibrating noise drawn straight from a horror film fills the auditorium, I look up and watch the wires shiver over our heads.

The sound fades and is taken over by text.

I try to concentrate on the story, but I'm having trouble keeping up.

My eye is drawn back again to the earth harp.

The words become nothing more than a gentle background hum. Like a radio left playing in the next room.

I'm mesmerised.

Is it ninety minutes yet? We must be near the end. Surely.

Someone sitting near the front gets up. I stare at him. There's no way out. The door is on the side of the stage. We're all trapped in here together.

But he has no intention of leaving.

With a pint glass in each hand, he turns around and walks back, up the stairs, towards the empty row.

He crosses in front of me, and takes a seat right in the corner.

Okay then.

Again I try to focus on the play, but again, the man gets up, crossing over to the other side of the row, where he once again plonks himself down in the last seat.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. If it weren't for those two drinks I might think he works on the production. Checking out the sightlines from the back and all that. A worthy purpose.

If only he had a hand free to take notes.

At last, we reach the end.

Bows.

Applause.

The cast disappear and it's time for us to go.

The central aisle clogs as audience members tip back their heads to examine the harp strings.

Someone reaches up to touch them.

No sound is made.

Disappointed, they move on.

And so do I.

Back down the corridor and out into the foyer.

I look over at the box office, hoping for a sniff of a chance if getting a programme. There's no one there, but perhaps they left some freesheets lying around.

I go over.

On the counter there are stacks of illustrated squares, all pile-up.

I pick one up off the nearest stack.

It's a beer mat. With a drawing of a face.

I turn it over.

According to the info on the back, it's Vanessa Redgrave. And part of a series of twelve.

I look at the others. Meera Syal, David Bowie, Yoko Ono, and Benjamin Zephaniah.

These are rather nifty. I like them.

Are they free?

I look around. There's no front of houser to ask.

Oh well.

I take one of each and slip them into my pocket as I make a break for the exit.

Safely outside, I pause to check my emails.

Still nothing.

I wonder if I'll ever get a response...

Not that it matters anymore. I doubt I'll be back. There are over three hundred theatres in this city. I don't need this one in my life.

Next!

The final curtain

And so here it is. My final theatre trip of the year.

It wasn't meant to be this way. I had it all planned out. My last theatre.

It was going to be the Lyceum. I was going to dayseat for Lion King tickets on New Year's Eve. Add a little jeopardy to the whole thing. Hand my fate up to the theatre gods. Will she make it? Or will she be left begging before the box office, just to be allowed to buy some overpriced ticket at the back of the balcony?

But here's the thing: I'm not going to make it. I know that. You know that. I still have nine theatres left to go.

And I can't get them checked off before the clock runs out. They just don't have any shows. They are dark.

Which means the marathon is too.

So I'm rolling the whole thing over to next year. I'll be having a few mop-up months. Catch those last theatres. Write those last posts. But take my time. I want to sleep first. And eat dinner occasionally. Maybe even do my laundry.

Chances are, you're not even going to get to read this before January. Because this marathoner is taking a break.

But one thing is still left to be done.

The Royal Albert Hall.

For Nutcracker.

Because no Christmas is complete without The Nutcracker.

Even for an anti-Christmas bitch like me.

The streets are packed.

I have to fight my way past the Natural History Museum, as the queue of people lining up to wobble their way around the ice rink stretches all the way down Exhibition Road.

I clutch my fur coat close to me and try hard to pretend that I don't hate humanity right now.

"Oh," says a woman, leading a brood of little girls onto Kensington Gore. "There it is. That's where we're going. You can't see it properly. That's a shame."

I look over.

The Albert Hall is covered in scaffolding. The round stone walls wrapped in white plastic, like an unwanted orange cream melting at the bottom of the Quality Street tin.

I follow the metal columns around until I find the entrance to the box office.

Or at least, the entrance to the foyer that will take me to the box office.

I've got to get through security first, and there are two tables set up for bag checks.

"Please have your bags ready for inspection," one of the bag checkers calls out over the queue.

I head towards the nearest desk and join the line.

"For the ballet?" asks the bag checker as I make it to the front.

I nod. I am here for the ballet.

"How are you?" he goes on, peeking inside my bag.

"Great!" I say with a touch too much enthusiasm. He's probably not used to meeting people at the end of a year packed with over three hundred trips to the theatre. I'm feeling a little bit drunk.

"That's good," he says, taken aback. He clicks his torch off and waves me through.

Through the doors and I’m stuck in a mass of people. It takes nearly a full minute for me to realise that the queue I have found myself in, is not actually the one that will take me to the ticket desk, but is instead leading people off to their seats.

I sidestep my way out and find my way over to the real queue. Handely located on the other side of a labyrinth of Albert Hall merch.

I do like a theatre shop. They are almost as good as museum shops.

This one is still laden down with piles of baubles. Not marked down, I notice. Despite Christmas being officially over now. A touch unsporting of them, I think.

One of the box officers smiles to indicate that it's my turn, and I hurry over to the counter.

"The surname's Smiles," I tell her, and she goes off to the wooden pigeon holes on the back wall to pull out my ticket.

"Have you got some form of ID?" she asks over her shoulder. She holds up her hand in a claw shape to mime the act of holding an ID card.

"Yeah," I say, pulling my driver's license. My provisional one. Just to be clear. This bitch doesn't drive. She just needs to prove who she is to get ballet tickets.

"Lovely," she says checking it, handing it back alongside my ticket. "You're in the Rausing Circle. So that's on the third floor."

I don't know what a Rausing Circle is, but it sounds fun. The type of fun that accompanies overspilling tankards. The type of fun that doesn't belong in the Royal Albert Hall. Except when accompanied by Union Jack wavers.

I struggle back the way I came, past the towers of baubles.

And spot my favourite type of usher.

A programme seller.

Turns out programmes are a tenner, which is steep, but eh... Birmingham Royal Ballet got to pull in that coin where they can find it. I doubt the Albert Hall comes cheap.

Right. My ticket says I need to head to Door 8.

I'm currently at Door 12.

I make for the exit.

I stop in the doorway.

I'd forgotten about the bag checks.

Shit. I don't fancy going through all that again.

I turn around, and join the original queue. I have no idea if I can even get to Door 8 from here. The signs certainly make no mention of it. Oh well. That's what you get for laying down extra money in pursuit of an actual paper ticket instead of swanning in with a barcode on a smartphone.

"Am I going the right way?" I ask the ticket checker as he checks my ticket.

"You can go any way you like," he replies, unhelpfully. I must have given him a look, because he glances down at the ticket again. "You need to walk around to Door 8, then take the stairs up to floor three."

And then he proceeds to not move. I have to squeeze myself in between him and the barrier in order to get past.

Looks like I'm not the only one who has absolutely had their fill of theatre this year.

Free of the foyer, I start walking around the long corridor which circles the auditorium.

The walls are covered with massive fuck off Hallmark ads, which doesn't seem in keeping with the green and cream paint job behind them. But eh. That corporate sponsorship must taste pretty sweet right now.

I find the door, go through, and end up in a wide stairwell.

And up I go.

At the top, I find a counter. And someone selling programme.

"No cast sheets?" asks a bloke, as he flicks through one of the stack of booklets.

"You'll have to go back downstairs. They might have some down there."

"All the way...?"

"Yeah, downstairs."

Dear gawd.

I'm so out of practice going to the ballet I'd forgotten that cast sheets were even a thing. And now I'm three floors away from them.

I dither at the top of the stairs.

I really don't want to go back down, round the corridor, and then go hunting for a single sheet of paper that's been run off a photocopier.

And they might not even be there.

Not when I could print out my own.

Oh yeah. I'm not so out of it that I don't remember that BRB put their cast sheets online, free for anyone to download.

Okay. I can do that.

My knees have already gone through enough today. I'm not sending them into spasms by forcing all those stairs on them again.

Through the door, and I find the entrance to the auditorium.

I show my ticket to the ticket checker.

"U," she says, reading it. Then before I know what's happening, she turns around and jogs up a short flight of stairs, pausing to look over her shoulder at me.

I follow on behind.

"Just through here," she says, pointing up an aisle. "Up the stairs to row 6, and the seat numbers are in the back."

"Okay, thanks," I say, starting off, but she stops me.

"Just to remind you, this is ballet. So no photographs or filming."

I laugh to show I know how the ballet works and she smiles in recognition of it.

Although, considering I just forgot cast sheets existed, maybe she was right to remind me.

I might end up doing any number of inappropriate things.

As I walk up the last steps I try to remind myself of the rules of ballet, and find myself not able to remember a single one. Do you clap in the pauses? Or wait until the end of the act? I'm fairly confident it's a pause-based clapping system, but then you are not supposed to clap during the sad bits. Are there sad bits in The Nutcracker? Nah, it's a kids' ballet. I should be fine. Wait for the pauses. Then clap. Easy.

I find row 6. It's near the back. Tickets aren't cheap.

But the view is better than I expected. This seat was sold as restricted view, but unless the person sitting in front of me tops seven-foot, I think I'll be okay. I have a clear view of the stage from here.

A very distant one.

But clear.

Comfy too.

I mean, the legroom isn't great, but the seatbacks are really high, which makes me feel like I'm sat in a throne. And that's worth a little knee cramp.

The seat next to me is empty, save for a flyer stuck to the back. I squint at it. It's for Swan Lake. But English National Ballet's version.

I wonder how BRB feel about that.

I get out my phone and start taking photos.

High above the stage, huge mushrooms bloom against the ceiling.

I vaguely recall that they have something to do with the sound quality in this place, but that doesn't stop them from looking super weird. Like we all wandered into Wonderland by accident.

Not helping the surrealness of the ceiling, are the giant baubles lurking in between the mushroom growths.

Much more impressive than the ones down in the shop. These ones could crush half the audience if they did a Phantom of the Opera style drop.

A family settles down next to me.

"Do you remember the story?" asks the dad. "I'm relying on you to tell me what's going on."

"Rember," interprets the mum. "No talking during."

"In half time though," insists the dad.

The little girl in between them huffs. "But you'll see!"

She's right. There isn't much of a narrative to The Nutcracker. And it's all quite clear on stage.

A voice comes over the sound system. An injury notice. I instantly forget the names.

Not that it matters. I don't have a cast sheet anyway.

The lights are dimming.

And another voice starts up.

A narrator.

I sigh and sink down in my chair.

Turns out Birmingham Royal Ballet don't trust their dancers to tell what little story there is in this ballet.

I really hate dance performances being narrated. Even worse when it's recorded and piped in.

Grim.

But eventually, it stops, and Christmas in the Stahlbaum home gets underway. The girls play with dolls. The boys get tin soldiers. And our Clara gets a giant Nutcracker. For some reason.

Night closes in.

But Clara can't sleep.

She's probably worried about what the fuck she's supposed to write in her thank you notes.

No matter, soon the Christmas tree starts to grow which distracts her.

It distracts me too. I was wondering how they were going to do this. Making a Christmas tree grow is a tricky business. Adding a touring production and a short run to the mix and it becomes almost impossible unless you use...

Ah. Yeah. They're using projections.

I mean. Okay. Fine.

Except, even for a projection this looks a bit... dare I say it... shit.

And now there's someone walking out of the wings. He has a microphone.

Oh dear.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says, as the music comes to an inelegant halt. "We're going to have to pause this performance. If you can stay in your seats, I'll let you know when we can continue."

Gosh.

A rumble of confused murmurs follows him off stage.

I get my phone out. Show stops take a few minutes at the best of times. Might as well check my emails or, you know, take a forbiddon photo.

"That's live performance, things go wrong," says the mum in my row.

"I like live shows," says the little girl. "Because you can have a snack in the middle."

She looks at both her parents in turn, to see if her hint has landed.

"Isn't that right, mummy?" she says when neither of them respond.

"What's that?"

"You get an ice cream in the middle," she says.

"That's right."

There's a pause as the little girl waits for this to sink in.

Nothing.

"So are we getting an ice cream then?" she adds, subtly going out the window now that ice creams are failing to materialise.

"It's not the interval. It's just a little break while they fix something," explains mum.

The little girl sighs. She's not impressed by this supposed difference. If there's a break, there should be ice cream.

And I for one am in entire agreement with her.

The man with the microphone reappears. He thanks us for our patience.

"You may have noticed a problem with the lighting," he says. "Which has now been fixed."

"Ah!" says the mum knowingly from down the row.

The dancers return to the stage. The music plays. The Christmas tree grows.

And the house lights stay on just a touch too long.

Soon enough, the Snowflakes are finishing off their waltz and it's time for the interval.

The little girl takes her family off for ice cream.

I stay behind.

I can't move.

Not even for ice cream.

My last show of the year.

Theatre number 296. Show number 306.

Or 307 if you count the double bill at The Bunker as two, which I definitely think you should.

That's more theatre than most people see in the entirety of their lives.

That's crazy to think, isn't it? A lifetime's worth of theatre smashed down and condensed into a single year.

I certainly feel like I've lived a lifetime within the past twelve months.

Can you see it?

The change in me, I mean.

Perhaps it doesn't come across in my words, but I have people telling me all the time how different I am to the Max they knew at the start of the year.

I'm more confident. Less anxious. More sure of myself.

I'm more accepting of the unknown. More open to adventure.

Well... maybe. Small adventures. That will have me home by 11.

What else?

I'm more selfish. That's for sure.

I think that's a good thing.

I'm less tolerant of bullshit.

That's not a good thing.

I work in an industry fuelled by bullshit.

Still, all in all, I'm feeling rather positive.

Which I don't mind telling you, is a humongously huge step.

2018 was a terrible year for me. The culmination of all the shit of 2018 was the reason I started this damn project. I had to do something, anything, to change my life. And this quirky idea, that's been sitting at the back of my brain since 2014, felt like the only way out. Something that could be mine. And whether I succeeded, or failed, would be entirely dependent on my own actions, and no one else's.

And, well, you already know I failed.

But somehow, that doesn't matter.

Because I got through it.

Someday I might tell you about the nervous breakdown I had over the summer. It wasn't fun. You may have sensed the lack of funness in my posts, even though I made a choice not to tell you about it specifically.

It was a long time coming though. And it forced me to make some hard decisions in my life.

And now... well.

I feel like maybe, there's a small chance, 2020 might turn out to be not entirely terrible.

Apart from, you know: Brexit, a Tory majority, and the world being on fire.

But other than those small matters...

Anyway, enough about all that. I'm sure, once my brain has stopped fizzing, I'll be able to cobble together some thoughts. What theatre was like in this city of ours, in the year of someone-or-other's lord, 2019.

Just need to get a couple of dinners in me first.

Far down below, in front of the stage, two girls are playing catch with one of the snowballs which rolled off the stage during act one.

Their feet skitter through the fake snow as they race after the ball.

The ushers standing guard at the stairs, stopping any wandering audience members from climbing up onto the stage, watch them with indulgent side-eyes.

The family are back now.

The little girl has her ice cream.

Act two is starting, and the narrator is whispering his story-updates through the speakers.

We get through the rest of the show without further incident, and we all clap heartily at the end. Rounds and rounds of applause for every cast member, in the grand production that is the ballet curtain call.

The family stand in order to layer themselves up with sweaters and cardigans and jackets and coats and scarfs.

The mum spots me waiting and nudges the little girl to one side so the "nice lady" can get past.

Down the stairs I go.

At the bottom, the usher on the door wishes us all a good night.

I smile back at him.

I think it might be a good night after all.

I'm free.

Finally.

I can do whatever the hell I want this evening.

I’m going to make myself dinner.

Crossing bridges and trying not to burn them

You can't just walk into the JW3 building.

The entrance is set back from the road and only accessible by crossing over a long bridge. Access to the bridge is through huge metal gate. A gate that is guarded by security.

"Bag check?" I ask the security guard as I approach. Probably best to at least show willing.

"Yes, please!" he says, clicking on his torch as I open my bag for him.

He pokes around inside, picking up a tissue-wrapped parcel.

"What's this, if I may ask?" he asks in a tone that mixes politeness and the promise of significantly less politeness in equal measure.

"Is a gift box," I tell him. "It's empty."

I just bought it at the Tiger down the road. The very nice sales assistant wrapped it in tissue so that it wouldn't get messed up in my bag. And I was too cheap to pay the 50 pee fee for a bag. On reflection, this was a mistake. As packages go, it does look a touch suspicious.

He turns it over, and discovers that it is, indeed, empty.

Convinced that I have no intentions of bombing the Jewish community centre, he steps back and lets me through.

I walk across the bridge.

Far below, a small ice rink has been built, and the last couple of kids skate around, protected by the high walls on all sides.

I pause to take a photo, but I don't want to hang around. I can feel the security guard keeping a close eye. I hurry over to the doors and go in.

There's a huge desk taking up one wall. That's the box office.

Over on the other side there are bookcases and huge floor cushions which a few kids are making full use of.

"Oh sorry," says one of the box officers, suddenly looking up and noticing me waiting.

"Hello! The surname's Smiles? S. M. I. L. E. S.?"

"Collecting tickets?"

"Yup."

She taps something into her computer. "First name?"

"Maxine. M. A. X. I. N. E." I say. I've got a bit of a cold again. The kind of cold that clogs up my voice. Always best to spell things out.

"That's one ticket," she says, handing it over.

I take it, a touch surprised. Given all the security I thought I might at least have to provide a bit of ID. But perhaps they already ran the background checks on me before I got here.

"Thanks, err, where am I going?"

Yup, I'm ashamed to say I have never been to JW3 before.

"It's in the Hall," says the box officer. "Down the stairs, to the left, and through the restaurant."

"Down. Left. Restaurant," I repeat. "Thanks!"

And off I go, down the stairs, and into the restaurant. And it's a proper restaurant, not a cafe. Bit annoying. I could have been tempted by a slice of cake. But nevermind.

I turn left. Keeping close to the wall as I pass tables heaving with people having their dinner.

Right at the end, there are doors, flanked either side by ushers. That must be the entrance to the Hall.

It's closed.

I'm early.

I look around.

There's nowhere to sit.

I'm in a restaurant.

I turn back, wondering whether I should go back upstairs to make use of those massive squashy floor cushions. But I'm too old to sprawl.

Over on the far side of the room are some doors leading outside to the courtyard.

I go out.

The last skaters are packing up and coming back in.

I'm all alone out here.

Headlights flash.

There's a car by the gate.

It waits, engine running, the lights so bright they make my blink.

The gate creaks open.

The car drives in.

I don't hang around to find out who's driving it. I go back inside.

The doors are open now.

A queue has formed, running all the way down the side of the restaurant.

I join it.

We move quickly.

"Thanks very much," says the ticket checker as he tears off the stub. "Enjoy!"

Inside I find myself walking down the side of a seating bank until I reach the front.

It's busy tonight.

People wearing lanyards scuttle about the front, getting in the way and yet not directing anyone.

I squeeze through them as they hold hurried conversations. They don't even look up.

I start climbing, trying to find a seat.

The back few rows have been cordoned off with a rope, and I slip into one of the last rows.

The seats are a mixture of singles and doubles. I pick a double, and send up a short prayer to the theatre gods that I won't have to share it with anyone.

From here I can see tens of heads wearing kippahs. I can't remember the last time I saw a man wearing a kippah in the theatre, let alone so many at once.

That's not the only thing that's done differently here.

A woman comes in, carrying a takeaway box from the restaurant. By the smell, the contents is warm and savoury. She also has a fork.

Now, I appreciate that being around your own people makes you feel safe enough to wear religious clothing. But hot food? In a theatre? Truly that is an abomination.

She sidles into the row in front of me and she points at an empty chair.

"Can I just reserve this one?" says the man sitting next to the empty seat.

She nods and moves one along.

It's a double-wide.

"Is this for one or two?" she asks.

"There are lots of seats," comes the confused reply of the seat-saver.

"But is this for two? Or can I have it myself...?"

"If you like...?"

She sits, but as the row begins to fill up, she changes her mind.

Coat and bag are swung over the back of the seat into my row. Next comes her umbrella. Then her dinner.

Finally, she climbs over.

As she organises herself, she places her takeaway down on my double-wide. I stare at it, faintly disgusted but also really hungry.

I miss eating dinner.

Eventually, the takeaway box is removed.

But I soon find something else trying to my friends with my knees.

An elbow.

It's draping over the back of the seat in front.

I shift my legs to one side, but it's no good. This girl is doing to full flirt-stretch over her date for the evening. I can tell it's a date because as well as the arm, she's also fluffing up her curls and tipping back her head to laugh.

An action that means that my knees aren't just getting elbowed, they are getting blanketed by hair.

I'm beginning to doubt that these are my people.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to start, if you can take your seats."

A woman appears on stage. She introduces herself. She's the programmer at JW3.

She introduces another woman. Who in turn introduces our performer for the evening. A little excessive on the whole introduction front, but this is an industry that attracts people who like talking, so I suppose we should be supportive of that.

Anyway, the show for the evening is about conspiracy theories. Which sounds fun.

Antisemitic conspiracy theories.

Which sounds less fun.

As the target of Marlon Solomon's exposition narrows to the Labour party... I begin to grow uncomfortable.

I've made it no secret from you that I'm Jewish. Nor that I vote Labour.

And I can tell you now that my family have, in turn, not made a secret of how little they approve of my political affiliations.

I've been called a race traitor. I've been told that I voted for Hitler. I've been told I should be shot for voting Labour.

Shot.

Shot!

Thank gawd for strict gun laws, eh?

So, yeah. I'm feeling a little awkward in this room right now. With these people, who are my people. And yet...

Solomon tells us that he never feels more Jewish than when his Jewishness is under attack.

I get that. I've felt that.

I've never felt less Jewish than in this room.

I've never felt more left wing.

Solomon tells us that he's lost work though his calling out of antisemitism in the Labour party.

I can believe it.

My family likes to say that I'm a lefty liberal because that's what I'm surrounded by in theatre. But the truth is, it's the other way around. I went to work in theatre because I wanted to surround myself with lefty liberals.

That's where I feel comfortable.

But I've heard plenty of suspect shit over the years.

Like an old co-worker, who I won't name because... well, the arts is a small world… anyway, when I told them I had dual nationality with Britain and Israel, they quickly informed me that the reason they were anti-Israel, no, wait, scrap that, the reason they had to be anti-Israel, was that their father was posted there with the army. The British army. A statement I've thought a lot about over the intervening years, and yet it still baffles me as much now as it did then. Both in its content and the need to tell me.

Another co-worker, who I won't name because she's a dear friend and an absolute darling, once gigglingly asked me if I had heard of David Icke. She had been listening to his stuff and thought he was fascinating. Lizard people! Fancy. I told her that she should stop listening to David Icke. Because David Icke is well-known as a antisemite. I don't know if she took my advice. I hope she did.

Then there was Falsetto-gate. Which was never resolved, or explained, or even defended.

Oh, and that thing at the Tricycle theatre. Do you remember that thing at the Tricycle theatre? Back when it was the Tricycle and not the Kiln? They pulled an entire film festival, a Jewish film festival, because it recieved funding by the Israeli embassy.

I mean, of all things to boycott, art seems to me like it should be last on the list.

I was lucky enough to be employed somewhere where a lot of Israeli artists were (and are) invited to bring their work on the regular. But when they came there was also the question "who is funding it?” and then bracing ourselves for protests if the answer wasn't one acceptable to the right-thinking-left. There never were protests. Not while I was there. I'm not sure I could have coped with it if there was.

Perhaps we avoided it because the Israeliness of these artists was always downplayed

I was asked, more than once, to remove a reference to these artists' nationality from marketing copy.

It's a weird thing, being asked to scrub out the name of a country that you hold a passport for. Lest it spark trouble.

I was never required to do that with artists from any other nation.

Time for questions.

"Now there's been the little matter of the general election," says someone in the front row who has seen the show three times now. "And Corbyn will be spending a lot more time on his allotment..."

"Thank gawd," stage whispers the woman sitting next to me.

Thank gawd.

Thank gawd.

I don't hear the rest of the question.

I'm shifting in my seat, desperate to get out of here.

I have never felt more uncomfortable in all my life.

The arts is very left. This is true. And like Solomon, this is where I feel my most Jewish. But sitting here in JW3, or having dinner with my family, that's when I'm most socialist.

The questions finish.

People start getting up to put on their coats.

One of the introducers from the beginning comes back on stage and starts doing an outro.

I just want to get out of here.

The couple next to me are taking their time leaving, sorting through all their bags and pockets, clearly with nowhere else to be.

The bloke looks up and sees me waiting.

"Shall we move?" he suggests. "People want to leave."

People do want to leave.

As soon as they pick up their stuff I'm out, speeding down the steps, around the seating block, through the door, down past the restaurant, up the stairs, across the foyer and back across that bridge.

Theatre was supposed to be my safe place, and I have never felt more attacked.

As I hurry down to the bus stop, I feverishly type notes into my phone.

On the bus ride back through Golders Green and back to Finchley, I try to make sense of my feelings.

I don't think they've changed.

I don't regret voting Labour in the last election.

I just really hope that I never have to.

Not very Hans Christian

Well this is weird. Six weeks to the day since I said goodbye to this joint, I'm walking back through the stage door at Sadler's Wells. It's ten-thirty. I have to remind myself that I'm not actually late for work. I'm early for my show. 

I pass all the carved heads and painted portraits of various dancers that I never paid much attention to when I worked here. I'm not about to start examining them now.

For performances in the studio, a box office is set up at the reception desk, and I head over to join the queue.

I don't know this box officer. I'm rather relieved by that. I get to stay under the radar for a few more seconds.

"I think it'll be under..." I say, giving Martha's surname. Bless her, she sorted all this out for me.

He flicks through the tickets in the box. "Noooo?"

Oh. "Maybe Smiles?" I say, hopefully.

"Ah yes!" he says, immediately perking up. He remembers that one.

He plucks the ticket out and hands it to me.

By this time, the stage door keeper has returned, and there's no getting away from her eagle eyes. "Hello honey," she says and I am suddenly overcome by the need to explain my presence to her.

"I'm seeing Little Match Girl," I say, holding up the ticket to prove that I am, indeed, there to see Little Match Girl.

After a bit of chit-chat I make a break for it. I never returned my staff pass when I left, and I don't want to risk getting found out.

I pass the cafe, turning my head away from all the cakes. They don't push this in the marketing, but Sadler's has really good cakes. Especially the carrot cake which was always my afternoon indulgence on really hard days. The flapjacks are good to, and are the sort of thing you can almost convince yourself is an acceptable breakfast when you have to come in early to meet a print deadline.

Just opposite are the doors to the studio. A row of ushers are standing guard, and amongst them, the front of house manager. I put my fingers to my lips. I don't want her giving me away, because I've just spotted the programming team.

I creep up, and bless them. They pretend to be happy to see me.

But not surprised.

Almost like they knew I was coming.

"Yeah, I wrote your name,” says an ex-co-worker who I won't be naming because I forgot to ask permission.

Oh.

"I thought it would be under Martha's name and I can sneak in."

"No. Nothing escapes me here."

Well.

"Do you want a freesheet? I know you love a freesheet."

I do love a freesheet.

She goes off to fetch me one and after posing with it for a photo, hands it over for me to give it a professional once over. Nice paper stock. Correct logo. No glaring typos. Slight formatting error, but I doubt anyone else would notice it. I'm almost disappointed. I was rather hoping everything had fallen apart after I left.

"They were printed down the road."

Oh? "Oh?"

There's only one reason things are printed down the road. 

"We almost didn't have freesheets for Wednesday but I told them we couldn't not have freesheets."

Definitely not.

I smile as she tells me all the exploits of getting them printed in time for first night and I begin to feel a lot better.

"Let me get you the visual storyline," she says, going off to fetch me more paper.

Ah yes. I didn't mention. I'm here for the relaxed performance. And along with the ear protectors I see laid out on the podium table near the door, and the chill-out room going off the cafe, there's also the visual storyline - a document designed to diminish anxiety by preparing audience members for everything that is going to happen.

"The titles are in italics," I say with a dramatic sigh as she hands it to me. "Gone a month and already the brand is falling apart."

But I'm only kidding. It's great. Especially the bolded line that tells me that while the matches in the show are real, as are their flames, "they are not dangerous if you don't go near them." Further down, a bullet point informs me that the dancers may dance close to me "but they won't touch you," which is very comforting.

Honestly, as someone who gets anxious about something as simple as hailing buses, I think these things should be available for all performances at every theatre. I am very much in favour of visual stories.

There are pictures of the entrance, and the box office and... I just realised something. This is my blog. This is what I'm writing. Except where mine is long and rambling, this is short and snappy and can be read in under a couple of minutes. Turns out you can filter down the entire experience of visiting a theatre in less than two thousand words. Huh. 

Who knew?

Anyway, after a few more hellos and a few more hugs, it's time to go in.

I show my ticket to the front of houser on the door.

"You know where you're going?" she laughs.

"I do!"

The Lilian Baylis Studio, or the LBS to those in the know, is a black box theatre. The stage is wide, as you'd expect for dance, and the seating basic but comfortable. 

I find my seat. It turns out that I'm near the back, and on the end. These people understand me.

Phil King is already in the corner of the stage, standing behind a barricade of instruments.

I dump my coat and my bag. And the very expensive chocolates that I just bought from the very expensive chocolate shop in Camden Passage. 

Don't make that face. I know. I shouldn't be spending any money in any form of shop, let alone an expensive chocolate shop in Camden Passage, but I had to vote this morning, and I know it will do absolutely no good at all. That's a level of despair that can only be cured by a very small purchase from a very expensive shop. The chocolate will help when the results come in. As will the tenner I put down on a conservative majority at the bookies yesterday. At least a Tory win will be buying my lunch tomorrow.

Enough of that. I have a theatre to concentrate on.

All around the auditorium, children bump into each other as they find their seats.

"I like the smoke!" says a small boy, pointing at the haze wafting over the stage.

"Where shall I sit?" calls out an equally small boy as his group is ordered to wait in the aisle until the grown-ups get themselves organised. "Where shall I sittttt?"

A minute later, he is told where to sit, and he gazes open-mouthed at the large moon hanging over the stage.

I stand up to let someone in my row, immediately apologising as I realise my bag, chocolate, and coat have spilled out to take over half the row.

"Don't worry," he says. "If no one comes, we can spread out."

I sigh. "The joys of thinking you can get away with going to the shops before the theatre." I grab my expensive chocolate and stuff it in my handbag, hoping that the thin layers of pavé don't crack in their box.

One of the learning and engagement team members comes over.

"Guys," she says. "Do you want to sit nearer the front?"

I absolutely do. Now that I know that none of the dancers will be touching me, there's no fear to be found sitting further forward.

We move over and plonk ourselves down in the second row, with the other staff members watching this morning show.

Probably the last thing they wanted, but I'm enjoying the view.

Especially as the lights dim, and the dancers appear.

I have to admit. I've seen the Little Match Girl before. I may not like panto, or even Christmas, but if I have a winter tradition, it's getting all weepy about a small girl shivering in the snow. I've been saving this theatre all year just so I could come and see this show. It was my one big concern about leaving Sadler's - not seeing Little Match.

But I've made it back.

And now I get to sit here, sniffing, for an hour, as the poor little match girl skitters about the stage, struggling in the face of a capitalist society that wants nothing to do with her. 

While all around greedy Tories guzzle on champagne and panettone and shut their doors to the unattractive sight of poverty. I mean. They're Italian. So they're not actual Tories. But still. I'm feeling a bit fragile though and the parallels are right there, for all to see.

It is unsettling though, with their whitened skin and darkened eyes, I feel like I'm seeing myself up there. It doesn't help that I've got a small stash of very expensive chocolates sitting in my bag right now. As the tiny match girl curls up in the show, I feel guilty for every time I kept my head down and pretended not to see a homeless person begging on the tube.

I should probably sign up for some volunteering over Christmas.

It's not like I'll be doing anything else.

The theatres are shut that day.

Thankfully our match girl has one more adventure in store for her before we say goodbye, as her grandmother takes her off to the moon.

Yes. Fine. It's not Hans Christian Anderson going on here. It's Arthur Pita. And you know how much I love Arthur Pita. This is my third Arthur Pita show of the year and they've all be charmingly surreal. So, of course he takes her to the moon. And we get to go with her. As does the musician, joining her on stage with his theremin.

As the little match girl comes forward to blow out her final match, a boy sitting behind us calls out: "Again!"

We all giggle.

And it's time to go.

I hastily press my hands under my lashes to check my mascara hasn't run.

I think I'm safe.

I've got a lunch date, followed by a coffee date, with some old coworkers. It wouldn't do at all to let them know I have a heart lurking under all my black armour now.

Back in the cafe, I make towards the chill-out room to grab a photo, but it's too late. It's been broken down and everything is now being carried out.

Thankfully, someone offers to send me a few of theirs.

Which means I can go guzzle myself sick over lunch and hopefully try not to think about what I'm going to wake up to tomorrow.

Sparkle and whinneeee

"What are you seeing tonight?" asks one of my coworkers.

"Nativity! The Musical," I tell them with a sigh of resignation. I'm not particular looking forward to it.

"Oh, I love that film!" pipes up a voice from the other side of the office.

It's a film? "It's a film?"

"Yeah, I love all of them."

All of them? “All of them?"

"Yeah. There are three!"

"Three?!"

"Yeah. There's a cute dog."

"There's a dog?!"

This changes everything. I get Googling, finding the Nativity! The Musical website and heading straight for the cast list. And yes: there's a dog. Poppy is playing the role of Cracker the Dog. "Starred in her first West End production at just 8 weeks old," I read aloud from her biography. "Wow."

I'm impressed. I love stage-animals. And this one seems like a pro. She even has her own instagram.

I keep on clicking around, fascinated by this cultural phenomenon that has apparently passed me by.

"Featuring the hit songs Sparkle & Shine, and Nazareth?" I say doubtfully.

"Yeah, Sparkle & Shine!"

"You've heard of it?”

"Of course!" 

"Are you joking?" They must be joking.

"Sparkle and shineee..." they sing.

They are definitely joking. That does not sound like a real song.

I guess I'll find out soon enough.

If I can find the venue.

It's a bit embarrassing, but even after living in Hammsersmith for five months, I still don't actually know where the Eventim Apollo is. 

I used to get stopped quite a lot, on the way out of the tube station, by lost tourists, and I would always point them in the direction that I thought it was. That is, the direction of all the restaurants advertising pre-theatre menus. I figured they had to be close by. But according to Google Maps, I spent five months pointing these poor people in entirely the wrong direction, because it's actually just behind the tube station. And I've been walking right past it without even noticing.

Oh dear.

"Wow, that is massive," says a young woman as she races past with her friend.

They are both wearing a lot of sequins and hairspray and are out for a good time tonight.

"Is that it?" asks her friend. "We're here already?"

"That was quick."

Turns out I'm not the only one surprised by this venue's location.

With approximately six thousand other people, I cross the road, pass a parked coach, and find myself in a snaking mass of crowd control barriers.

I know I've complained a lot about long queues outside theatres, but this seems a bit extreme.

Every metal corner is punctuated by a sign telling us to take out our keys and phones and to open our bags ready to be searched. 

Not sure what keys and phones have to do with it. We're not getting on a plane as far as I'm aware. 

The signs also tell us that tickets are one per person and we should have them ready to be scanned.

I do not have my ticket yet. I look around for a sign to point me the way to the box office, but everywhere I turn it's keys and phones and bag inspections.

I stick to the queue I'm in, winding my way around the maze, having paths blocked in front of me as queue controllers move barriers to divert the line into new directions. It's like being caught in the worst game of Snake, where every possible turn will have me bumping into my own tail.

"Got your tickets?" asks a queue controller as I near the front.

"No, I'm collecting," I tell him.

"Box office queue over there?" he says, pointing away from the main doors to a secondary, smaller, queue.

I join it.

But not before a man rolling a suitcase manages to squeeze himself in front of me.

So desperate was he to get ahead that I ended up having to jump over that damned suitcase of his. He must have travelled a very long way to be here tonight.

He calls over a queue controller and says something to him.

"This is the box office queue," says the queue controller.

"No," says suitcase man. "I was told to come here."

I puzzle over his statement. Looks like the queue controller is too, as he tries to explain that regardless of what he was told, this is the queue for the box office.

"No!" insists suitcase man. "I was..."

"Yeah," says the queue controller. "You jumped the queue."

I hold my breath as suitcase man staggers back at this accusation.

"Noooo," he wails, finally recovering himself. "I didn't! They told me to come here."

We're nearing the front now.

There's a massive scanner. The sort you'd find in an airport after placing your belt and bag in a plastic tray.

Perhaps we are actually getting on a plane. I hope we're going somewhere warm.

A queue controller appears. Another one. I didn't think it was possible for so many to exist in the same place. Eventim must have got themselves a job lot on those padded waterproof jackets they're all wearing and felt the need to hire staff to fill them out.

"Two steps to the side!" he calls, waving us closer to the wall. "Bags off shoulders! Leave everything in your bag, Phones. Keys. If you don't have a bag, put them in your pockets."

I don't think this guy has read the signs.

Suitcase guy is next up at the scanner.

I pull my bag off my shoulder.

The queue controller beckons to me, out of the line.

"Bag?"

I open it for him.

He peers inside.

"Through you go, madam." 

I race ahead of suitcase guy, feeling a bit smug about not having to go through the scanner.

Inside, there's a massive window in the wall with "Box Office" signposted above it. Dot matrices indicate what all the different lines are for. I join one called "Sales & Collections."

The suitcase guy arrives. He joins the twin "Sales & Collections" queue next to me.

He looks at his queue.

He looks at mine.

Then he wheels his suitcase over, placing himself right in front of me.

I laugh.

Out loud.

"Mate! Are you serious?" I say, still laughing, his ballsiness knocking the anxiety right out of me for a moment.

Without looking at me, he returns to his old queue.

Wow, that actually worked. 

I make it to the front of my queue without any more queue-jumpers.

"Hi. The surname's Smiles?" I tell the box officer.

"Can I see ID?"

"Err... yeah?"

I pull out my purse and see what I have. There's a provisional driving license in there. That'll do.

I slide it under the glass and he takes it, giving it a close look before handing it back.

Blimey. Who could have guessed that Nativity! The Musical had higher security checks that Hamilton? Certainly not me.

This must be one hell of a show.

He hands me an envelope. It has my name hand written on it. I test the flap. It's sealed.

As I walk over to the doors I peel it open wondering if perhaps I've won a prize.

No such luck. It's just a ticket.

I show it to the ticket checker on the door and she beeps the barcode with her scanner.

And I'm in.

I'm in a massive room.

Huge staircases on each end go up to the circle.

There's a long bar. And a merch desk. And a Christmas tree.

It's also very green.

Green lights bath the art deco architecture making the whole space look like it was cursed by an evil, but very stylish, sorceress.

For a moment I wonder if I've perhaps booked by mistake for Wicked. I am not disappointed by this thought. But the programme seller in front of me is selling a massive booklet that is very much not from Wicked.

"How much is a programme?" I ask her.

"Ten pounds."

Oof. Ten pounds.

I get out my purse. "I have a twenty?" I say, pulling out the last note I have in there.

"No worries," she says, as if I wasn't handing over a stonking amount of money to her in exchange for a few pretty biogs.

We trade notes and I pick up a programme from her proffered pile.

I'll give it this, it really is big. I can barely fit it in my bag, and my bag is huge. 

Ushers in what looks like football scarfs hold up lighty-up things that spin around and twinkle. The merch desk is full of hoodies and lunchboxes emblazed with the Nativity! The Musical title treatment. You can even buy a Nativity! The Musical Christmas bauble. For eight pounds.

There's also a t-shirt with "Sparkle & Shine" on it. With great big red stars around it.

I don't think I have ever, in all my travels for this marathon, seen merch for a specific song.

Except for Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. But that's not a song. It's an abomination.

It can't be real. I refuse to believe it's real.

No song so hyped can ever be worth listening to.

I decide to go up.

The stairwell is one of those fancy double-sided ones which definitely deserve some ballgown action on them.

Sadly, they have to settle for my long black witch's skirt.

Upstairs I find a chain of green banquettes surrounding the huge oval oculus that looks down on the foyer below. Stars float across the space. The Eventim Apollo has really invested in Christmas.

My ticket says I need door three. I follow the signs until I find it.

Up some more stairs and I am in the auditorium.

Lights stream over the walls.

I blink, almost blinded by them.

Noticing my dazzled expression, an usher steps forward.

"Err, U51?" I say, showing him my ticket.

"Yup! That's up these stairs and on the right."

I thank him and head over to the aisle he was indicating.

I start climbing.

And climbing.

And climbing.

I'm a long way back.

When I turn around, the stage looks like a puppet theatre in the distance.

"I'm just here," I say to two young women as they make to get up and let me past.

The seats are comfy enough. Plenty of legroom.

But as soon as the family in the row in front sit down, I realise that the price of such luxury is the absence of decent sight-lines.

I decide not to worry about it and set about taking photos, doing the classic blogger pose with the programme in front of the stage.

The programme is so weighty I struggle to hold it up, and when I go to stuff it back in my back, I end up cramping my hand.

Theatre blogging is a young person's game, for real.

"I was thinking," says my neighbour to her friend. "You know those little side bits..." She points out the boxes either side of the stage. "They can't be nice to sit in."

"Fun though," says the friend.

"But you wouldn't be able to see anything!"

As someone who has sat in a box a few times, I can confirm both of these ladies are correct. They are fun. And you can't see anything.

The lights dim and a woman comes out on stage. She introduces herself as the creator of Nativity!. Both the films and the musical. It's a special night, she tells us. The first performance in the London edition of this show.

The audience whoops appreciatively.

There are lots of new children in the show tonight, she tells us. 

This gets another whoop.

"Who knows Sparkle & Shine?" she asks, to yet another round of whoops.

Turns out I am surrounded by people who do know Sparkle & Shine.

We should feel free to sing along if we know the words, she tells us. And if we don't? Well, just listen and we'll pick them up and can join in then.

Holy. Shitballs.

What have I got myself in for?

It starts.

And it's... not good?

Like, really not good?

Like... positively bad?

Scenes drag. Jokes extend too far. Everything takes so damn long.

Just as I'm debating getting my programme out to check the running time, a dog comes out. A cute dog. A cute beige dog with curly fur.

It's Pepper!

The audience "Awwwws" as one.

The young woman sitting next to me gasps and actually covers her mouth she's so excited.

Pepper is very cute.

"That's mum's dog!" cries out the young girl sitting in front of us. "That's mum's dog!"

One of the adults in the party gets out her phone. She finds a photo and shows it to the group. Yup. That's a dog. And it almost looks like Pepper.

The dog is removed, and the story goes on.

At least, I think there's meant to be a story. It's hard to tell.

Now, I've seen bad musicals. A lot of them. Ones without budget for decent costumes or rehearsal time or even talent.

But this has them all beat, for the sheer fact that they have spent a shit load on all these things, and yet still ended up with this trash.

I have never seen a turd polished to such a high shine in my entire life.

"That's Sharon!" whispers my neighbour as a black silhouette appears on stage.

And sure enough, as the spotlit hits, Sharon Osbourne is revealed. 

The audience goes wild.

But that's nothing to the reaction the bloke playing the theatre critic gets as he appears.

I squint, trying to make out his face at such a distance, but nope. I don't recognise him. 

I must be even more out of touch than I thought, because this lot is screaming at the sight of him.

The screaming is replaced by more squees of appreciations when Sharon brings on her puppies. That's better. If this show could just concentrate on small dogs getting cuddled, I feel I could get on board with it.

The woman in front gets out her phone again. I can see the time. It's eight o'clock.

We've been in here a full hour, and yet nothing has happened. Narratively speaking.

How long is this show if it manages to have a full hour of preamble? Good gawd.

With a whimper, we reach the interval.

"This is boring?" says a woman sitting behind me. She sounds doubtful. "I saw the film last night and it wasn't like this?"

I get out the programme to have a look.

Turns out, the person I can't recognise is Ryan Clarke-Neal.

This information doesn't help.

I turn to the biographies.

Apparently he does a lot of reality TV.

I'll admit, I'm a bit behind on the whole reality TV stuff. So that explains it.

I go back to the credits. Pepper is listed with "The Grown Ups." I find this very pleasing.

The puppies are also there. "Holly and Star."

I really hope they weren't named in honour of this show.

The interval draws to a close and people return to their seats.

Apart from the family sitting right in front of me. The lights are going down, and those seats are empty.

Which means I have a fair shot of actually seeing the stage.

It doesn't help.

This show is just the worst.

All around me people creep out of their rows and head for the exits. They're holding their coats. They're not coming back.

On stage, we've managed to limp forward to the actual purpose of Nativity! The Musical. Which is the nativity musical.

Multiple Marys and multiple Jpsephs flood the stage. I expect this is meant to be charming, but I don't have the capacity to care anymore.

And then, there are stars.

This is it. Sparkle & Shine!

The children start to sing.

"Sparkle and Shinnneeeee...."

I can't make out the rest of the words.

The mumbles are lost against the music.

I mean, I get it: diction is hard. Especially with childish voices. But I thought we were meant to be singing along to this?

As the final notes disappear, I realise the only words I know are in the title.

A fresh set of children are brought on. These ones clap their hands above their heads to encourage us to join in, but the audience gives up after a few lines. This is not a clapable song.

The lights go out.

The stage is dark.

Candles are brought on.

"If your phone has a light, point it at the stage!"

The audience obliges, pulling out their phones at holding them aloft.

I look around. Only about thirty percent of the people in the circle have figured out how to turn their torch on. The rest are just bathing in the glow of their own home screens.

As the song builds, everyone starts waving their phones in time with the music.

My heart shrivels.

This is so depressing.

Even the reprise of Sparkle & Shine can't pull me out of this stupor. I still don't know the lyrics.

With the cast still on stage, getting their final round of applause, I grab my coat and head for the edit. I can't take this a second longer.

Up the stairs, through the door to the gents, and then down, down, down until I reach the exit. Cross the road. Into Hammersmith station. Down to the Piccadilly line. I squeeze through the crowds just in time to make it onto the first train heading east, plonking myself down into an empty seat.

And there's a dog sitting in front of me.

A very cute dog.

A very cute beige dog with curly fur.

Is that...?

It can't be...

"Is it alright to take a picture?" asks the girl sitting beside me.

"Of course you can!" says the man holding the dog.

But as she gets her phone out he clutches the dog to his chest and comes over, sinking on his knees in front of me and placing the dog in her lap.

She coos and awws and gets her selfie.

"Oh look!" she says, pointing down to a small carrier on the ground. Inside tiny puppies snuffle at the mesh.

As we reach the next station, a woman walks over and scritches the dog under the chin without even asking.

"That must happen all the time!" says the girl.

The dog handler nods.

"Did you just see the show then?"

They had.

"Did you enjoy it?"

I hold my breath, waiting for their answer. But I needn't have worried. They loved it.

"It funny isn't it?" he says, and they spend the next couple of stations chatting tour schedules and whatnot.

When I leave them at Leicester Square, they're still gabbing away.

Pepper sleeps throughout, her dreams soundtracked by Sparkle & Shine.

The Death of Fred

"You're wearing a fun coat!" says Martha as we hug hello in the middle of KFC. 

She's just got off a delayed train from Birmingham and has rushed all the way from Euston to join me at the Hackney Empire for a touch of panto. Yes, I am quite aware I do not deserve her as a friend. It's okay. I know.

Hopefully I'm making up for it somewhat by feeding her before we go in.

Plus, of course, I am wearing a fun coat.

"I'm very cuddly," I say. That's one of the benefits of wearing a massive fur coat. It's like hugging a teddy bear.

The KFCer drops our food on the counter.

It's been one hell of a journey to get it. Three times in a single transaction she's managed to get distracted and wander off to do something else. Ending with her blinking at me.

"Yes?" she said, sounding more than a bit pissed off to see me still standing in front of her till.

"Err, can I pay?" I asked.

Turns out I could.

Honestly, Martha may have had to contend with delayed trains from Birmingham, but I had my own problems. The Piccadilly line was so damn busy tonight we almost needed those proffesional train pushers from Tokyo to get us all to fit in.

"No eye contact!" ordered the TFLer at Oxford Circus. "No smiling! Come on guys, you know the score. You will be judged!"

But at least we're both here. And have Fillet burgers to make everything just that tiniest touch better.

Plus, I already have the tickets, so all we have to do is finish our dinners and stroll in.

Oh yeah, that's another thing. The Hackney Empire might have those cute little box office windows I love so much, but they're no good if the microphone isn't working.

The box officer had to lean right in to hear me and I still had to repeat myself three times.

As for when she talked, yeah, couldn't hear I damn thing. I was working on guess work. Guesses borne of 284 theatre trips.

"Maxine?" I hazarded as she plucked out a ticket.

Oh well. It did the trick and I now have them, sitting in my pocket. Two tickets. For the stalls. Because I know how to treat a girl.

Burgers polished off, we make the short walk over to the theatre.

There are homeless people everywhere. Commuters peel off to one side in order to move around the man sitting on the pavement, begging for help. A woman is walking up and down, asking for people to buy her a cup of tea.

"The entrance is closed?" says Martha, stopping outside the theatre.

I look over. The steps leading up to the doors are now empty. Even the ticket checker seems to have moved on.

"Where's the entrance to the stalls?" I ask. I vaguely remembered the ticket checker pointing out the way to someone.

"It's there," says Martha. She knows this theatre well. She worked here back in the day. "But the door is closed."

A dreadful thought occurs to me. 

"Did I get the start time wrong?" I ask, pulling the tickets from my pocket. "Oh shit. It's 7pm. I did," I say, bursting into laughter. We're ten minutes late. Almost the exact amount of time we just spent stuffing fried chicken into our faces.

Martha doubles back and heads for the main doors, me following on meekly behind. She takes the tickets and shows them to a front of houser. I stop, presuming that she'll hold us back until some latecomers point, but she just points us towards a side door.

"Sorry," comes a voice from behind us. "Can we search your bags please?"

We stop in our tracks. I don't know about Martha, but having a bag checker order me to stop has me feeling all guilty. I know full well I don't have any contraband in my bag. But suddenly I'm panicking that there might be a rogue protein bar in there.

The bag checker peers in. I spot my newly purchased water bottle lurking in the bottom and I try to remember whether the pre-show email from the theatre said that drinks were banned as well as food.

He lets it pass.

We go through the door, down the corridor, and without a single person stopping us, go through the doors to the theatre.

I let Martha lead the way, down the side aisle and towards the front. Up on stage two glittered-up characters are having a slanging match. I hope they don't spot us.

We make it to our seats, right on the aisle, thank the theatre gods, and we stuff ourselves in, cramming our coats under our chairs and listening to the roar of laughter around us to some off-colour joke.

As we settle down, I suppose I should admit that I'm not a fan of panto.

No. Wait. 

That's not right. Not a fan suggests a passive disinterest with the genre. No. I very actively dislike panto.

I've managed to avoid going to one for a very long time.

I used to cry and beg as a child not to have to go to the panto, which as much passion and snot as I used to get out of piano lessons.

Yeah. A child begging not to have to go to see a show.

That's what we're talking here.

You've known me long enough by this point that you can probably guess the reasons: audience interaction, nonsense storylines, and shouting. So much shouting. I really hate shouting.

But I think I might be okay tonight. The Hackney panto is the granddaddy of them all. I mean, even I know that it's pretty much the gold standard. And besides, I've got Martha here to protect me.

She did manage to put herself in first so that I'm on the aisle though... Hmm...

But for now, I'm safe in this warm fug of laughter.

The crowd roars as the panto dame is rolled out on a trolley.

Martha leans over to me in confusion. "I thought Clive Rowe wasn't doing it this year?" 

I had absolutely no intel on the matter so I just shrug and shake my head.

"Put the lights up!" orders Rowe. "I'm going down."

Oh dear.

As the house lights go up, I slink down in my seat.

Rowe is padding down the steps into the stalls. And he has someone in his sights. Someone very special.

"Come on, come on," he orders, pulling said someone out of their seat.

"Who is it?" whispers Martha.

I shake my head, I don't know.

Turns out, neither does Rowe.

"What's your name then?"

The man mumbles something back.

"What's that?"

The man leans in and mumbles again.

"Bernard?" says Rowe. "Berrrrnarrrdddd."

Bernard nods.

"I thought it was a celebrity!" says Martha.

Me too.

"Who are you here with, Berrnarrrrdddddd?" asks Rowe.

Bernard is here with his family. He points them out and they wave back grinning. They are loving this.

They love it even more with Rowe starts tugging at his zip. Rowe was that jacket off to see what Bernard is offering.

Bernard willingly relinquishes his jacket. He less willingly strikes a strong-man pose. But when Rowe goes for the second layer of clothing, Bernard twists away. That's a bit much.

"That was cruel," I say to Martha as Bernard is allowed back to his seat.

She nods vigorously.

Probably because we are both now in fear of being dragged out of our seats. A fear not allayed even when Rowe starts chucking sweets about.

But both Martha and I make it to the interval still in our seats.

"I need to get a programme," I say, leaping up as soon as the house lights release me.

I look around, and spot something strange at the back of the auditorium.

"I didn't know the bar was in the theatre," I say.

"Oh, yeah," says Martha. "It's cool, right? I really love this theatre."

"It is beautiful."

I squeeze my way through the crowds to the back of the stalls. There's a merch desk back here too, and I can already see the spread of shiny programmes fanned out on the counter.

"Sorry," says a woman, stopping me. "Is it over, or are they on a break?"

It takes me a moment to figure out that we are not having a conversation about the Ross and Rachel saga.

"It's the interval," I tell her. "Don't worry, they'll be back."

She nods. Suspicions confirmed.

Leaving the group to return to their seats, I make it over to the merch desk.

"Can I get a programme please?" I ask, doing my best to ignore all the flashy lights and other items that want me to buy them.

I can, for the very reasonable price of three pounds.

I grab my purse to get the money out. Or try and get the money out, anyway. I can't. The zip running down the back of my elephant shaped purse is broken.

"Sorry," I tell the programme seller, as I jab my finger in the tiny gap and try to wrench the thing open, silently apologising to my poor Fred the elephant as I yank at him. After a long struggle, the zip pulls away, just enough for me to get a couple of fingers in. I feel around, and pull out three pounds coins from amongst the other, inferior, coinage. You see. This is why I like pound coins. They are chunky. Or thicc, as the kids might say. That's what makes them so pleasingly reliable, even when your zip is broken.

Still, my poor Fred.

I place him back in my bag, with the care of a nurse lifting a hospital blanket over a recently deceased patient.

Transaction complete, I turn around to find Martha.

"I can't find the ice cream!" she wails.

"Are they not selling it at the bar?"

"No!"

I look around, spotting a huge mass of people over in the corner, down near the front of the stage. "What about there?"

Martha goes off to investigate, returning a moment later with the news that yes, that's where the ice cream seller is hiding.

"I'm getting a Double Chocolate," she says. "What do you want?"

Well, gosh... Can't turn down a free ice cream now, can I?

I go for a Strawberry, because yes, I am that basic.

We go back to our seats, chatting about the production.

"I loved that ship," I saw, taking about the massive ship that had taken up the entire stage, and split open to show the interior. As sets go, that ranks right up there with the stage rotating upside down in Wild at the Hampstead. Or the white walls turning into Mao-posters when they were washed in Wild Swans at the Young Vic. Something about the word 'wild' brings out the best in set designers. The Hackney panto is certainly a wild ride. Dick Whittington has managed to step off the Windrush without knowing his namesake and immediately accepts his destiny to become mayor of London by leaving the city.

I am enjoying the whole-hearted anti-Brexitness of it all. Including the rat called Boris.

"I know I'm biased," says Martha as she digs into her Double Chocolate. "But I just love this theatre so much."

I look around. It is quite the spectacular venue. Not an inch has gone undecorated. It looks like a Victorian Christmas card. Leaning my head right back, I notice something. "The ceiling is glittery," I say.

Martha sighs. "I love this theatre so much."

"What do the fours mean?" I ask, pointing to the number 4s written over the doors on each side.

"I don't know," says Martha, sounding annoyed at her own ignorance. But she recovers quickly. "It's a Frank Matcham theatre."

But of course.

"Clive Rowe," she goes on. "You know, the mum, is the only person to win an Olivier for a panto. He doesn't do it every year, but when he does, it always sells out."

I laugh. "I love how much trivia you know."

"I ran the social media for nine months..." she says, darkly.

"He's great," I say. "I loved how even the stage hand was grinning away in the wings."

"I saw that!" says Martha, suddenly all excited.

A voice comes over the soundsystem. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the performance will begin in five minutes."

I get up to put my empty ice cream tube into one of the plastic bin bags tied to the railing running around the stalls.

And then we're launched back into the story, joining Dick and pals down under the sea.

There's a mermaid swimming across the stage.

The girls sitting behind us gasp.

A short trip via a desert island (compleate with King Kong) later, we're back in London Town. And the cat wants to teach us how to talk as cool as him.

A board with lyrics descends.

Oh dear.

A short demonstration of moves later, and we're ordered to our feet. As Kat B sings the Cool Cat Chat, we get out paws out, our claws out, shake our tails, clean our ears, and take a cat nap.

With relief I sit back down. That wasn't too bad. Not with Martha here to shake her tail beside me.

But we don't get away that easily. We were rubbish, and need to do it again.

"For fuck's sake," says Martha as she gets back to her feet. "I'm so tired!"

Paws, claws, tails, ears and naps are all shown off and we sink back down into our seats.

"I love panto!" says Martha as the cast crouch down to wave at us from beneath the descending curtain.

"I have seven more to see..." I say, the enthuasism very much lacking from my voice.

"Lucky!"

"Yeah, but would you want to see them alone?"

"Oh, yeah. Not alone! But I'll come to another one."

We start walking towards the exit.

"Well, I'm going to Hounslow tomorrow. And Catford. And, shit, where else... Oh yeah, I've got to go to Harrow!"

A woman walking in front of us turns around. "I don't have to go to Harrow!" she cries out in horror.

Martha and I share a confused glance as we push our way out into the Hackney night.

The absolute pits

I'm standing in the foyer of the Barbican Centre and I am stumped. Completely, and utterly, stumped.

Now, that's not an unusual feeling to be having in the Barbican Centre. This place is a warren. Turn a wrong corner and you'll find yourself being welcomed into a lost tribe of Dutch theatre-goers, unseen by the world since 1978.

There are so many levels, and half-levels, and staircases that you need to climb in order to go back down again somewhere else, I swear this place was built in order to protect London from invading hoards. Just like when road signs were taken down during the war to confuse the Nazis.

Except, even with the signs very much intact, I'm still competly, and utterly, stumped.

I can see the box office, that's in front of me. One end for the Hall. The other for the Theatre. I get that.

What I don't understand is where I'm supposed to go to pick up my ticket for The Pit. Because that's where I am going tonight. If I can figure out where the hell it is.

After much soul-searching, I decide there's only one course of action I can take. It's not a great one, but at this point, I can see no other choice. I'm going to have to ask.

"Hi," I say at the box office counter. The Hall end. "Where's the box office for The Pit?"

“Ah!" says the box officer. "That's a bit further on. You see the concrete pillar over there?”

I turn around and look where she's pointing. There is indeed a massive concrete pillar. Hard to miss. It's as big as a house.

“Go past that," she says. "Through the glass doors on the other side, across, and take the lift to minus two."

"Two floors down?" I ask, just to confirm, although I think I know where she means. Well, I know where the lifts are, anyway.

She nods.

Two floors down.

Okay then. Let's go.

I follow her directions, going around the concrete pillar, through the glass doors, across the funny underground road, and through the glass doors on the other side.

I ignore the lifts and push through the doors into the stairwell.

Because I'm a rebel, me.

Good thing the Barbican's architecture rewards such diligence. A rather grim, almost car-park like, staircase is made ethereal by the flooding in of azure blue light, bouncing off the many mirrors set up at strange and disconcerting angles.

As I reach the bottom, I find myself in the cinema bit of the Barbican. I'm never been in the cinema bit. I'm a bit useless about keeping up with films at the best of times, I ain't never been to the Barbican to see one.

I look around.

There's a desk set up near the entrance, but somehow I don't think that's what I'm after.

I keep on walking, and yup, there it is. The box office. Handily signposted with a great big "tickets" above the lozenge cut out - shaped like a smartphone with all those rounded corners and shiny walls.

"Hi!" I say, bouncing up to the counter. "The surname's Smiles?"

"Smiles!" repeats the box officer. "That's such a nice name!"

"Thanks," I say, shrugging nonchalantly, but I can't stop myself from grinning. It never gets old.

"Is that Max?" she asks, moving on swiftly from the surname fangirling.

It is Max. I get my ticket and the receipt and all that stuff and go to find somewhere to sit down.

There's a bar against the back wall. It looks well smart, back-lit by a set of warm yellow light-boxes. No one seems particularly interested in that.

I find one of the soft benches and get comfortable.

The entrance to The Pit is just opposite. It's not open yet, but I don't want to plonk myself too far away because it's unallocated seating. And I don't fancy getting stuck at the back of the queue.

"Hellooooooo," calls a woman from across the way, as she spots someone she recognises. "I got my shoes off!”

She does have her shoes off. She extends her legs out in front of her, demonstrating the lack of shoe-ness. "It's been a long day," she explains.

I'm sure.

Over by the door to the theatre, there's some movement. A general getting-readiness.

We all begin to get up. Not quickly. No one wants to start a panic. But there's a slow shift, a picking up of bags, a movement towards the doors.

I find myself standing in a very loosely defined line. Not exactly a queue. No one wants to admit they're in a queue. We all just want to be as close to the doors as possible when they open.

As the elastic ribbon of the barriers pings back, we begin our shuffle forward. Our very slow shuffle forward.

Slow enough for me to read the sign advising us that the show we're seeing has had to be rejigged due to the injury of one of the performers.

We're getting our bags checked.

Which is a first for me.

Not having my bag checked. Obviously. I've long grown used to that particular indignity.

I mean having to display the innards of said bag in queue to get our tickets checked. As if a terrorist would have his heart set on blowing up the Pit, and would turn up his nose at the foyer.

The contents of my bag is deemed acceptable, and my ticket passes muster too. So in I go. Down a short corridor, round a corner, and through another set of doors, marked up with slightly less chirpy signage that its foyer friend: The Pit Theatre.

It's dark in here. As you'd expect from a theatre named after a hole in the ground, but there the similarities end.

It's big. Okay, not Coliseum big, but that's quite a sizable stage going on over there.

One side is taken over by a wall of spotlights, all pointed directly at us as we round the bank of seating.

I climb back to my favourite row. You know the one. The third. Just far enough away that I don't feel like I'm sitting on the stage, and out of the way of all low-flying interaction.

Don't think I'm in danger of that tonight. But still. I'm here to see SUPERFAN: Nosedive. Not sure exactly what that is, but I've seen the reviews popping up and they haven't been overly great. Not that that means much. I disagree with the critics plenty. But still.

A woman comes and sits next to me. Right next to me. Leaving empty seats on either side of us.

She gets out a book, cracks it open, and starts reading.

That must be one hell of a good book.

I glance at the cover.

It's Dracula.

Ergh.

I can't be having with that.

It might be a surprise for you to find out that I'm not a SUPERFAN of the most famous vampire novel ever written, but there you go. I tried rereading a couple of years back and could not get through it again. The letter where Lucy begs Mina not to tell anyone that she had received three proposals that day, except Jonathon, because of course a wife should not keep anything from her husband, even her friends' secrets, put me right off.

When she goes on to say that she thinks men are so noble-hearted in the face of women, who are all just too silly, well... that's where me and Bram Stoker parted ways for good.

Anyway, the rest of the audience are indulging in more normal pursuits. That is: trying to capture the perfect Instagram shot of the wall of lights.

Friends lean over to one another to show each other their efforts.

All of them are better than mine.

Sorry about that.

You'll just have to accept my word for it that the lights are much more impressive than my photography skills are capable of showing off.

Oh well. Phones away.

A man is lying on the ground. On his stomach. He's struggling. Flopping about like a dying fish.
Something tells me this show is going to be weird.

A few more performers appear to watch the man's struggles. Can't tell you who they are. You may have noticed that no one has attempted to give me a freesheet. And you know the rules: no freesheet, no credits. I ain't looking up nobody on the internet.

So I can't tell you who any of these people are. Nor the identity of the two kids who come out to join in the weirdness. I guess all I have to do now is sit back and try to work out what's going on for myself.

By the end, I'm none the wiser. If there was a theme, or a narrative, it eluded me completely

Oh well.

That's the Barbican done at least.

Now... how do I get out of here?

OK Boomer

I have exactly seven minutes to get off this train, navigate my way through the station, get myself over to the theatre, pick up my ticket, and find my seat.

It's fine. It's all totally fine.

And so not my fault. How dare you.

I left a good hour ago. For a journey that Citymapper assured me could be done in thirty-eight minutes. So you see, I was being responsible. Leaving extra time. Just in case the District line was being... well, it's usual District line self.

What Citymapper failed to account for, was me getting on the Westbound train, instead of the Eastbound one which I should have got on. Because I just started a new job and I'm a little sleep-deprived at the moment and pretty much working solely on autopilot right now.

So you see: not my fault.

It's pelting it down as we pull into Richmond.

The exit to the station is clogged by crowds trying to escape the downpour.

"Oh for gawd's SAKE," I growl at a group of shoppers blocking me in and forcing me to climb over their mountain of bags.

But I'm out.

Shaking my umbrella into life with one hand and bringing up Google Maps with the other, I splash my way through the puddles, not waiting for the lights to change before crossing the road. I duck and dive between slow-moving pedestrians, and jump over a very small dog who is too busy delicately sniffing a lamppost to notice the woman in a too-short velvet dress and a grim-expression baring down on him.

Round the corner. And the next one.

Is this it?

That's a fucking fancy building over there. All red stone pillars and carvings everywhere. Definitely a Frank Matcham building if ever I saw one. There can't of been two architects like that. The whole city would have collapsed under the strain of excessive twiddly-bits.

Just time for the quickest of photos then I'm running up the stairs.

A front of housers steps out, blocking my way with a smile.

"Do you have your ticket on you?" she asks, her cheerful expression only faltering slightly at the sight of my red and puffy one.

"No, I'm collecting," I tell her.

"Just this way please," she says, pointing the way down to a sunken box office.

I trot down the steps and go over to the counter.

"Hi! The surname's Smiles?" I tell one of the box officers.

He finds my ticket in the ticket box and looks at it carefully.

"We put you in the Dress Circle," he tells me.

"Great!" I say enthuasitically.

"We've closed the Upper Circle today."

Oh. Well, that's not so great. But between you and me, I was rather counting on it. When I booked my ticket, the seat plan didn't look all that full, so I took a punt and bought myself the cheapest ticket I cound find. Twelve quid. Well, sixteen and a bit once you add all of ATG's outrageous fees on top. But still, not bad for third row in the Dress Circle if you've got the nerves to play that game.

He hands me a pile of tickets. My original one, with the receipt and all that attached. And the new one. Comped through, with my name handwritten across the top.

Back into the little foyer and up towards the stairs. No time to stop off at the merch desk. Go directly to your seat. Do not investigate the existence of programmes. Do not pass go.

"Just this way please," says one of the front of housers positioned on the stairs when I show her my ticket.

She has the poshest voice I've ever heard in my life and I feel my legs processing the instruction before my head has even got a handle on them.

Up more stairs and then into the auditorium.

I have a general impression of... Edwardian exuberance. But there's no time to take any of it in. Down to row C, and an apology to the woman sitting at the end.

"I knew there'd be another one," she sniffs disapprovingly as if she'd been waiting for me to turn up.

"Sorry," I say again. "I got caught out in the rain."

I have no idea what that excuses, but it's what I had so I went with it.

I move along the row and find my seat, dumping my bag and umbrella in relief.

The man sitting near me dives forward and grabs the glass of beer I'd nearly toppled.

"Oh, sorry," I say.

"No, no. It's all me," he says.

I don't argue. It is kinda all him. We have a whole seat acting as buffer between us. There was no need for his beer glass to be sitting there.

Finally, I can sit down and catch my breath.

I look around me.

Usually when I'm in a Matcham theatre, I fall to the cliche simile of saying the place looks like a wedding cake. But ain't no-one getting a cake like this made for them unless they have HRH in their name. There isn't a single inch of wall that isn't covered in decoration.

Fat babies line up above the curtain swags to hold up garlands of flowers.

The boxes either side are topped by chubby faces sprouting wings out of their necks.

Ladies who haven't quite mastered the art of pinning their togas also demonstrate a lack of understanding as to how to play a tambourine, lifting up their arms in very elegant, almost balletic gestures, while their instrument sits uselessly at waist level.

Elsewhere, a skinny bearded man wearing a crown, stares at a woman's arse, which I'm sure is a reference to some myth or other, and not just Matcham getting overexcited.

All of this is topped by a stone plaque proclaiming "To wake the soul by tender strokes of art," which if you ask me, doesn't explain anything. What on earth is doing the stroking? Is it theatre? Or the skinny bearded man? The plaque does not say.

The lights flicker around the auditorium, and then go out.

It's starting.

It's 1947 and sadness snaps at the heels of everyone who made it through the war.

"Can you see?" a man whispers in the row behind me.

"Yes," comes the reply. "Can you see?"

"Yes, yes. I can see."

As if this exchange wasn't pointless enough, the man then leans over to the next person in their group. "Can you see?"

After a bit of back and forth, it's established that they can all see, and we can get on with the business of being stroked with art.

From what I understand, Night Watch is an adaptation of a Sarah Waters novel, so I'm sat here waiting for the gay to start and... yup. There we go.

You know, thinking about it, I haven't seen many lesbian scenes on this marathon. This might well be my first. Even when going to plays that are specifically pitched as 'gay' it's always been of the male variety. There just doesn't seem to be that much lesbian-action happening in theatre. Which is a shame.

Down my row, there's a great rumble. A snore.

I look over.

The lady who was all pissy about my turning up not-late is asleep. Hands clasped in her lap. Her head drooping forward. Snoring.

Once. Twice.

The third one is a snort so loud she wakes herself up, her head and shoulders shaking as she pulls herself back into consciousness.

Just in time for the interval.

I suppose I better go find the programmes.

I head back out to the foyer.

The merch desk is covered in piles of Waters' book. Eight pounds, according to the sign. There are also mugs, and a teddy. For reasons.

"Hi! Are there programmes?" I ask, looking down at this packed table.

"There are programmes," says the merch desker. "They're just here." From behind a stack of books, she points to a small pile of programmes. "They're four pounds."

Half the price of the original text. Honestly, when you say it like that, you realise how expensive my programme habit is.

"Brilliant!" I say, ignoring the screams coming from inside my purse. "Can I pay by card."

"Of course you can! There's a card machine just in front of you. Would you like a receipt?"

I would not.

There doesn't seem to be much else happening down here.

I go back to into the auditorium. Not many people have left. A few have made it to the back to get themselves an ice cream, but for the most part everyone is still in their seat.

My end-of-rower has got herself an icecream. I hope the sugar will keep her energy up for the second half as we are plunged back in time to 1943.

Soon enough. The snore returns.

First from the end-of-rower, and then my beer drinking neighbour.

They bat their snorts from one to the other, like a sleepy game of ping-pong.

My neighbour is the first to awake.

"Sorry, sorry," he announces to the theastre in general before slumping further into his seat.

The end-of-rower's head quivers then sinks back down into her chest.

Not sure how either of them could be sleeping. Yes, it's very warm in here. And the seats are well comfy. And it's mid-afternoon on a rainy and miserable day. But there are frickin' bombs going off on stage! Of both the literal, and emotional kind.

Good thing this lot are all a fraction too young to have served in the war. They'd have snoozed their way through every air raid.

As the applause dies, I pull on my cardie, and my jacket, and get my umbrella ready for action.

The end-of-rower has already stormed her back up the steps to the back of the Dress Circle and has fallen into conversation with one of the ushers.

"You haven't seen it?" she asks, incredulous.

The usher explains that, no, she hasn't been posted inside the auditorium during the show as yet.

"You must!" the end-of-rower goes on. "It's very good."

I mean... it's a fine story, but I'm not sure I'd be trusting this lady to provide criticism of it. If she was tenderly stroked by art, it was only to soothe her dreams.

I stop in the foyer to make some notes on my phone. Through the doors I can see the downpour and I have no desire to step out into it quite yet.

"Thank you!" calls the merch desker over to me.

Okay, I guess that's my prompt to leave.

Umbrella up, here I go.

Back to BAC

Brrr. It's freezing out here on Lavender Hill. It feels like all the winds have come raging over the Thames to come terrorise south London tonight.

I bounce around on the pavement, willing the traffic lights to change.

This is my last trip to Battersea Arts Centre of the marathon and I don't want to be late. Or freeze to death before I even get there.

Now, I know you. And I can tell that you've been counting up all my BAC trips on your fingers, and you're gearing up to lecture me about all the other venue space they've got which I haven't been to yet. But I'm going to stop you right there. Have you seen Battersea Arts Centre? I mean, obviously you have. But have you really taken note of how many rooms they got going on in that place? Hundreds. And any one of them is a potential theatre. It's impossible. You could do a year-long theatre marathon in that building alone. So, this is it. I've done the Grand Hall. That's the biggie. And the Council Chamber. And the Recreation Room. And I'm on my way to see something in the Members’ Bar. That's four theatres. And I think that's enough. The whole point of this marathon was to experience the different theatres, and I think after tonight I'll have the BAC experience down.

So yeah, don't be coming at me because I didn't go to the Porter's Room or whatever. Because, I totally tried. I've been keeping tabs on where all their shows have been for ten months now. And I haven't seen anything come up.

With relief I spot the bright lights of the BAC shining out in the darkness and I skuttle up the stone steps and through the wooden doors into the lobby.

I pause, looking around.

Last time I was here there was a desk set up against that wall for the box office, but it's empty tonight.

I pass through the next set of doors, into the main foyer, with its glorious bee-patterned mosaic floor.

It's quiet tongiht. There's a group in the corner, chatting around a table, and there's a bit of buzz going on in the bar, but otherwise, it's almost deserted.

I can see the box office though. A small desk tucked up next to that grand staircase.

"Hi!" I say, pulling off my gloves with relief. It's lovely and warm in here. "The surname's Smiles?"

The box officer opens her mouth to say something, but I get there first.

"It's for A Haunted Experience," I tell her.

"That's brilliant," she says with a nod, looking through the ticket box. I notice she's wearing a great big badge, asking me to ask her about a free drink. That's weird. "What's the first name please?"

I tell her. Should I ask her about the drink?

"Great! That's your ticket and your card receipt. The house is opening soon. You're upstairs."

I decide not to pursue the drink angle.

I don't even go to the bar. I probably should. What with it being my last trip to BAC and my last opportunity to write about it. But honestly, what I want is to to sit on one of those wooden school chairs and just... not talk to anyone for a few minutes.

It's so warm, and quiet, and cosy, I feel myself getting dozy and I have to stifle a yawn.

I know how this place works. When the house opens, the usher standing on the stairs will make an announcement and we'll all traipse up. All I have to do is settle down and wait.

Above the staircase there's a sign. It says hope.

All the lights are out.

That better not be a metaphor.

It's five to eight.

A woman sitting near me gets up and goes to talk to the usher on the stairs.

"Yeah, it hasn't opened yet," says the usher brightly. "But it's up the stairs and to the left."

The left, eh? That's exciting. I haven't been to any of the rooms on the left. Good thing I decided to pay this place one more visit.

A few minuts later, the annoucement comes.

"The house is now open for A Haunted Experience."

People emerge from every corner, and we start to make our way up the stairs, turning left, then right, and heading down to the end of the corridor.

I'm glad all this lot know where they're going, because I have no idea.

Right at the end, there's a table set up with stacks of plastic cups ready for drinks to be poured into.

And a front of houser, a pile of freesheets slung over her arms, ready to check tickets.

"Can I get one of those?" I say, indicating the freesheets.

"Sure you can," she says. She tries to pull one free, but they're all clinging together. "If I can get one loose," she laughs. She manages to peel one apart though and hands it to me.

Freesheet acquired, I go through the door. There's a ticket checker waiting on the other side. "That's grand," she says as I show mine to her. "You're in the second row. That's round the stage and up the stairs, and you're on the end there." She points at my seat, which, as it happens, is right by where we're standing.

I need to go round the long way though. There's a bit of a railing situation going on.

The seats are a single raked bank. Set within a large room displaying the kind of decayed elegance that is very chic at the moment in the world of theatre. The walls are a collage of paint jobs-past, speckled with missing plaster. Large windows have been bordered up with heavy-duty shutters involving wooden planks and metal rods. These are the kind of shutters a vampire would install in his holiday home. Not a scrap of sunlight would dare attempt to get in past those.

As the usher cheerfully guides the rest of the audience to their seat, I get comfy in mine.

Three record players line up in front of us, glowing in their individual spotlights. A black cloth has been hung up behind them.

I don't know what to make of any of it.

I'll admit I have no idea what I booked for, just the title was intriguing and the venue required.

I look at the freesheet.

There's a photocopy of a newspaper clipping. The heading is: A Pestilence. It's about the surprising number of "homosexual crimes" being brought before the assizes.

Something tells me we're not going to get a cheeky ghost story tonight.

The lights dim.

Tom Marshman appears behind the black curtain, made sheer by the lighting.

He stands with his back to us, his arms outstretched into semaphore as letters are projected onto the black cloth. The alphabet of inadequate language.

When we reach z, he steps out, all smiles and welcoming.

He's going to be using the record players. He's not an expert on them. But he wants to be. We all giggle at that.

And so it begins. Marshman setting up records as he tells us the story of a seventeen-year-old boy, on a train in 1953, who propositions an undercover policeman, and then goes on to name other homosexual men. He's not ashamed. He's almost blase about the situation.

"You may find these things morally wrong," he tells them. "But I do not."

Going off to one side, Marshman sets up a slide projector, to show us the translations of a secret language, Polari, spoken by gay men.

The young man sitting next to me reaches forward and pulls a pale pink notebook from his bag. Flicking through it to the next free page, he writes something down. "Clobber," he writes in black felt tip. "Clothes," in Polari.

Marshman sets up more records, dances around, even gives us a couple of headstands. All the while delving into what it meant to be a gay man before the Sexual Offenses Act of 1967.

By the end, the young man next to me is crying.

"Don't say I never take you to anything," he says to his date as the lights go up. His cheeks are bright red with tears. He wipes them with the back of his hands and gives us a great big sniff.

I can't blame him. That was traumatic.

But Marshman isn't done yet. He has three things to tell us. The first is that there is a trip to Wandsworth archives if anyone wants to join. The second is that he's selling pewter mugs. He holds one up for us to see and smiles sheepishly. Twenty quid and they say "you may find these things morally wrong, but I do not," on them. They're rather tasty. I wouldn't mind getting my hands on one of those.

"What's the other thing?" says Marshman, placing down the cup. "I know I had three things to tell you... ah yes!" We're to tell our friends. And if they could come on Saturday that would be great, because it's rather quiet.

That would be a shame. Marshman is one hell of an engaging performer.

Now, who can I convince to buy me a pewter mug for Christmas?

Nuestra casa es mi casa

"Can I check your bag?" asks the bag checker as I struggle with my umbrella outside the doors to The Other Palace.

I shove the wet umbrella under my arm and open the bag for him.

For once, it's not bursting to the brim with spare shoes and the results of various shopping trips. I'm almost not embarrased to have someone looking inside. Until I spot the constellation of cough sweet wrappers floating on wave of the general mess going on in there.

Oh well.

The cough sweet wrappers don't seem to bother him, and he waves me inside.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the house is now open for Reputation," says a disembodied voice.

Gosh. That was good timing. No hanging around here tonight.

I make my way over to the small podium that serves as the box office.

Yup. I actually invested my coin in getting a proper paper ticket this time around. I may have baulked at the fee for receiving such an honour when I was here for the main house, but as it's my final trip to this place, I figured I should see what one pound fifty actually buys me.

A queue forms for the stairwell down to the studio, and the box officer steps back from her podium in order to check tickets.

I wait, ready to launch myself into any gap in the line, but if anything, it keeps growing.

I stand there, awkwardly, wondering what I should do.

"No rush!" calls out a front of houser. "Plenty of seats for everyone."

That immediately sends me into a fit of anxiety. I can see full well that it's not going to be an empty house down there. And while I don't mind sitting at the back for my marathon trips, I don't like be slotted into random empty spaces at the last moment.

"They'll scan your tickets downstairs, so don't put them away!" continues the front of houser.

That's all very well, but I still haven't got mine.

As a group arrives, with a ream of tickets so long it reaches the floor, I take my chance and step in.

"I'm collecting?" I say.

The box officer turns to me for the first time. "For Reputation?"

"Yes. The surname's Smiles."

"Yeah! I saw that!"

A give a humble shrug, playing the celebrity that just got recognised while doing her weekly shop.

"Do you know the postcode?" she goes on.

I do.

"Lovely. There you go," she says handing me the ticket.

It's nice enough, I guess. White with a black border, like Victorian mourning stationery. There's The Other Palace logo in the corner and on the tab. And a stern warning that patrons with standing tickets will be required to be on their feet for the duration.

I do not have a standing ticket, so I'm not required to do shit.

I turn around and join the back of the queue, flashing my ticket to the box officer when I pass her. She nods, without the tiniest hint of recognition in her features to demonstrate that we talked all of ten seconds ago. I get it. You got to play it cool and let celebs get on with their daily lives.

Down the stairs I go. There are a lot of them. Every time we turn a corner more of them appear. The walls are lined with black and white photos of glamorous looking people.

But we finally make it to the bottom, and there's the promised ticket checker, waiting on the door.

"Head to the left, please," she intructs.

Inside there's a smart bar. And right in front of it, rows of seating.

Ah. I see what they're going for here. A kind of cabaret space.

I keep heading left, not sure how far left I'm supposed to go.

I pass a corner settee, all set up with tables and reserved signs.

"Mummmm," cries a small child crawling over the sofa. "I can't believe you got the worst view in here.... I can't believe.... Mummmmm. You got the worst seats. I can't believe! Mum!"

I don't know what he's on about. They look pretty darn cosy to me. Much better than the tight-packed rows of chairs.

Past the comfy corner there's another set of chairs. And an empty aisle seat. I hurry over to it.

"Is this free?" I ask the next person in the row.

"Yes, there's one left," she says. I pause. What a strange way to word it. As if she has claimed the row, and now has a spare chair she doesn't mind getting rid of.

An old man sitting in the row behind grabs the back of the chair and starts inching it away from its neighbours.

"I don't know why they put them so close. There's plenty of space," he grumbles as he, quite literally, rearranges the furniture.

I sit down before he can shift me any further along, but that doesn't stop him faffing.

"I'm just going to pull my chair back," he announces. "No one's behind me yet."

What may happen when someone does arrive does not appear to bother him.

A bloke comes along and starts closing up the vents in the ceiling above us. Halfway through he stops and spots the moved chairs.

"Sorry," he says. "I have a minimum area I have to keep clear." He starts to move the chairs back to where they were, to an accompaniment of grumbling from those sitting in them.

One old lady insists she cannot see. He tells her she's free to move. But the chair needs to stay where it is.

She grumbles a bit more.

More people arrive. It's really full now. They look at the reserved signs sitting on a couple of chairs. They pick them up and move them, before turning around in their seats to greet the people sitting behind them.

Oh yes. I'm at one of those shows. Where everyone knows everyone, and they are all connected with someone in the show.

No wonder they feel they have the right to treat this place like their living room.

A man with a silk scarf looped around his neck steps forward, holding a mobile phone aloft. He turns in a slow circle before going back to his seat.

I'm not quite sure what to make of that. Did he, like, find a mobile in the toilets or something? Is this how they do lost and found at The Other Palace? I'm baffled.

A few minutes later he's back, doing the rounds, chatting to all the old dears who are "very excited, so very excited," about the show.

Something tells me he's the composer.

Eventually he gets his fill of attention and we can get on with the show.

We're in some sort of girls' finishing school, and all the students are super excited because one of their number has just finished writing their novel. Which, if you ask me, shows a distinct lack of understanding about girls' schools, or writers' friends, but there you go. She's written a book about a mafia boss, and yet we are still asked to believe that she is naive enough to send in her novel, with a twenty-dollar fee I might add, to some rando guy who advertised in Variety.

Obviously he steals her story, because that's a thing that totally happens in real life, and cross-continental hijinks ensue.

It's the interval.

"I love it," coos an old lady as the suspected-composer returns on his rounds. "I love it. I love it."

"It needs to be in a bigger venue," she goes on after he's left. "It needs a big stage."

That's not a criticism that would ever have occurred to me. I mean... Wicked needs a big stage. Les Mis needs a big stage. A story about a bunch of boarding school girls does not strike me as needing a big stage. Unless she means it needs more room for the pillow fights.

The moving-chair man is back. This time he wants to finish closing those vents. He bashes against my knees as he squeezes himself into my row, and leans right over me as he thwacks at the vents with his rolled-up programme.

I cringe at the way he's treating that poor booklet. No programme has ever deserved such punishment.

By the sounds of it, the back row has been having a very good time at the bar. They're giggling and laughing and chatting, and have no intention of stopping even when the lights go down for act two. They whisper and snort their way through each song, only stopping when one of their phones goes off.

"Sorry!" the owner of the misbehaving phone announces loudly to the room in general.

A few numbers later, when another phone goes off, it's allowed to ring and ring and ring.

We all twist around in our chairs, trying to find the source, but no-one’s owning up.

Up on stage, the girl wins an Oscar and everyone congratulates her for winning her case and no one rolls their eyes at her being such a damn fool. Not even once. Which is nice. I guess.

Anyway, it's over now.

I make a break for it, racing up those stairs before someone tries to move them.

Elbows at Dawn

I'm off to the Bush Theatre tonight. A place I love. Although I'm fairly confident I've thrown a lot of shit over the years, complaining that they are hard to get to just because they're lurking all the way down at the end of the Circle line.

Yeah, well. My tolerance of hard-to-get-to-ness has been raised this year. I've shivered on platforms for twenty minutes waiting for trains that would never come. I've walked miles. I've had nice ladies on trains offer me sweets to stop me from fainting in overheated carriages. The Bush Theatre is not hard to get to. It's right opposite Shepherds Bush Market, for gawd's sake. I admit it. I was precious as fuck at the start of this year. But I have had my consciousness raised. And I think we can agree that I'm the better for it.

Anyway, as I was saying, I do love the Bush Theatre. It's so nice. And homey. And warm. And welcoming. And shiny. Let's not forget that. It's looks hella swish, with its bright yellow signage and fine red brick walls.

I don't think there could even be a more welcome sight than that of the warm light pouring out of the Bush's glass frontage after you've just battled against the Hammersmith and City line to get there.

Okay. Okay. I'm going to stop talking about trains now. I am. I promise.

I scoot through the little courtyard area that the Bush has going on, and through the automatic doors.

It's packed. I'm late. And everyone is busy getting their drink orders in before going in.

I join the queue at the box office. It moves fast, and soon enough I'm at the front giving my surname.

"Pardon?" says the box officer, leaning in.

"Smiles? S. M. I-"

He's already off, looking through the ticket box, and yup. He's found them.

"Your tickets are here," he says, handing them over. "It's seventy minutes straight through. No readmission."

That has to be the most perfect sentence in the English language. Seventy minutes straight through. The absolute dream.

As I double back the way I came, I find myself practically having to step over people as they pour through the door.

I know I should have avoided all this by looping my way around the box office and past the bar in order to get to the auditorium, but there's a chalkboard here that I want to get a photo of.

Yes, there it is.

"Baby Reindeer," it reads in pretty purple letters.

"70 minutes. No interval."

Oh bliss. I read that again just to revel in the sheer joy of it.

"No readmittance."

Yup. Love it.

"Contains haze." Cool. "Strong language." Fuck yeah. "References to sexual abuse, violence, stalking & transphobia." Oh. Shit. Well, guess you can't have everything in life. Here I was thinking I was getting a nice play about Rudolph from before he got famous.

"Hello and welcome to the Bush Theatre. For tonight's performance, Baby Reindeer, please take your seats. It'll be starting in five minutes."

Right then. Looks like I've going in.

I go through the strange stairwell that the Bush has in the middle of their foyer.

Over on the other side is the entrance to the newly named Holloway Theatre.

I had forgotten about that. And the near heart attack that the announcement had given me. I don't want any theatres tweeting out about their 'new theatres' between now and New Year. I'm calling time on openings, reopenings, renamings, and anything else until the clock hits midnight on 31 December. Then they can do what they want. Open pop-ups in their gender-neutral loos if that's what they want to do.

But some of us have marathons that we're still pretending are possible to finish. And I don't want any more nonsense before it's over. My heart cannot take it.

On the bar is a huge dispenser of cucumber water. A woman stops to pull out a water bottle and fills it up with spa-goodness before rejoining the queue.

The ticket checker is selling playtexts.

Fuck yeah.

You know how much I love programmes. And playtexts? Well, they are just another level on top of that. You get to take the entire play home with you, for four quid! That's epic. As is the knowledge these fuckers are going to cost the best part of a tenner when they hit the theatre section of Foyles.

"Can I get a playtext?" I ask the ticket checker.

"Of course!" she says with suggests that people here don't know what a damn bargain they're getting. "That's four pounds."

I get out my purse, but the queue behind me isn't going away.

I step back and wave the next person forward.

"Oh sorry," they say, as if it was them getting in my way. They dither for a second, but then, with the more embarrassed expression ever, step forward.

"Do you have change for a tenner?" I ask the very patient ticket checker. The queue is growing bigger by the minute, and I'm not sure there's enough cucumber water left to keep these people going while I start searching for four pound coins.

Turns out she does, and we do that awkward hand shuffle as we trade currency and balance a playtext between the both of us.

Inside, another front of houser waits for us. I shove my purse back in my bag and show him my ticket.

"B11? Over there, second row," he says, pointing across the stage to the opposite block of seating.

I pause to look around.

You never know what you are going to find in the Bush.

Tonight we're in the round. Or rather, in the square. With seating on four sides.

An almost Gothic arched architecture has been sculpted out of the space with cloth sails stung up between pillars.

In the centre is a circle of light.

I make my way around to what the sign tells me, is block D.

I find my seat. Second row. Right on the aisle.

Nice.

A group of girls come over. One of them is pointing to the empty seats next to me.

I get up to let them pass.

"That's not us," one of them says with the type of disdain that can only be levelled against someone you are really good friends with.

"Oh, sorry," says the pointer to me, with a hand motion for me to sit back down. She squints at the seats. "No! It is! Look! Sorry, that is us."

The two girls thank me as they pass.

A third, silent one, follows on behind. She doesn't say anything, but does give me a good jab with her elbows as she takes her jacket off, which I'm sure you can agree, is almost as good.

As I nurse my bruised arm, I look around.

It's a very young crowd in here. Lots of cool-looking people. Even the usher is wearing a beanie with his t-shirt.

Strange pits have been sunk into the floor, and the people sitting in them manage to not "oof" as they climb into them. That's the level of youth we're talking here.

As the lights dim, projections whizz around us on the gothic sails, and Richard Gadd appears to tell us the tale of his stalker.

It's great.

Like, it's really great.

Like, properly fucking amazing.

I'm not the only one to think so.

Across the way from me is a young woman with red hair, watching rapt, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide with horror at Gadd's story.

She winces and gasps and clutches her wine glass to her chest.

I can't stop staring at her.

It's getting embarrassing. But I have never in all my life seen such an expressive face.

Just as I realise that I'm quick becoming the stalker in this room, the man sitting in front of my rams his elbow back, right into my knee.

I wince and shift away as his arm retreats.

But a second later, he does it again. His elbow rising up as his rummages around in his trouser pocket.

Then a third time.

Gawd knows what he's keeping in there.

I add my knee to my list of bruised limbs.

Honestly, there must be some point-based game going on at the Bush tonight. How many times can the audience elbow the person in B11?

Four times.

That's how many.

Gadd finishes his tale, leaving a cuddly toy reindeer on the stage behind him as he retreats from our applause, only returning to give the room a general thumbs-up.

We head for the exit, crowding it as four different blocks of seats aim for a single door.

"I like the space," says someone standing behind me.

"Great space," their companion agrees.

"You'd never been to the old space though," says the first, with the smugness of a true Bush-hipster.

As I wait, I turn airplane mode on my phone off.

There's a notification.

A general election has been called.

Oh, what fun.

At least I don't have to get on the tube now. I can walk to Hammersmith from here. That's something...

The next day I'm still thinking about Baby Reindeer.

Fuck, that play is intense. Seventy minutes of pure heart-pounding fear. And it was funny too.

There's a level of talent there, that I just can't process. I don't understand how people like that manage to exist. I can't even say I'm jealous, because we exist on entirely different levels of reality.

I scroll through Twitter, half to read about what people more intelligent than I am are saying about the election, and half to distract myself from thoughts of Martha the stalker.

And then I see her.

That girl.

The one with the red hair.

I stop scrolling, picking up the phone to so at it closely.

Yup, that's definitely her. She's even wearing the same jumper I saw her in last night. Black. With roses.

She's only bloody in Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. That's Emma May Uden!

Fuck's sake. I told you she had an expressive face. She's a frickin' actor.

I very carefully do not follow her on Twitter before shutting down the app, putting away my phone, and deciding to take a break from social media.

Like Twisted Lips

It’s very very cold. And very very wet. And very very windy.

If that dark and stormy night dude, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, were still around, I’d be asking him to cover the rest of this post, but as he’s been dead a good hundred and fifty years, I guess I will just have to get on with it all by myself. Just like I have every other post on this gawd-forsaken marathon.

You might be able to tell, I’m having a bad day. And I’m in Kingston. Those two points are not unrelated. Not that I have anything against Kingston.

Other than it being a right pain in the arse to get to, is cold, wet, and windy, and is also the location of a theatre that once rejected me for a job. The theatre I’m going to right now, as it happens. No, I’m not still bitter about it. But thanks for asking.

I scurry through to streets of Kingston, fighting with my umbrella as it attempts to fly me across the road. It’s okay though. I can see it. The Rose Theatre. Just there, up ahead. Doing it’s very best to light up the gloom. I shake out my umbrella and burst through the doors, quelling the desire to shake myself down like a dog. 

The box office seems to be on the far end of a wide corridor, so I go over and join the queue. It doesn't take long for me to reach the front, so I give the lady behind the counter my surname and wait for her to pull my ticket from the box.

"And can you give me the address please?" she asks.

I give it.

She frowns.

"Shit, no. Sorry," I say, realising that I just gave her an address I haven't lived in for almost a decade. I manage to summon up the correct one, but as I walk away with my newly acquired ticket, I'm left a little dazed by the whole experience. This marathon is doing a number on my brain. Forgetting your postcode is one thing, but time-hoping back to your early twenties is quite another. I was not having fun back then. That period of my life is best forgotten and I don't want it coming up in a box office queue in Kingston. Shit be traumatic enough without that.

I pass another desk. This one selling programmes.

I join the queue. If anything can soothe me right now it's some papery programme goodness.

"There he is!"

A woman goes up to the man standing just ahead of me in the queue. They do the whole 'how are you' thing and then he looks at her.

"This is for programmes, not tickets," he tells her.

"Ah!"

She disappears.

Our queue lapses back into silence.

But the man ahead of me is restless.

He turns in a circle, almost trampeling me in the process. "So sorry," he says and then walks away.

Right.

I guess I'm next in line then.

"Can I get a programme?" I ask the programme seller.

"Sorry?" she says.

"I'd like a programme please?"

"Oh!" she says, her face clearing as realisation dawns that the person who has been waiting patiently in line at the programme desk might actually want to purchase one. "That's four pounds," she tells me.

I look in my purse. I don't have any reasonable amount of change for this transaction. All notes. And not even small ones. "Sorry," I apologise. "I just went to the cash machine."

"I'll give you change in pound coins," she says, half-threateningly.

Little does she knows that I fucking love pound coins.

Six shiny pound coins and a programme acquired, I go off to investigate what else the Rose Theatre has on offer.

Walking down the wide corridor, the space opens out into a cafe. In the centre, there's a massive fuck-off staircase which is very pleasing. While the walls are covered in black and white murals that remind me of the woodcuts I saw over in the other Rose theatre. The one over in Southwark.

The tables are packed with people enjoying pre-show drinks.

"This tea is sorting me right out," says a woman clutching a proper mug of tea between her hands.

Everyone looks the tiniest bit damp.

I take up position next to the staircase and try to work out what sort of person comes to the Rose Theatre on a miserable Saturday night to watch a play about a teenage girl who is raped, murdered, and spends her time in the afterlife watching her grieving family from heaven.

Yup, I'm here to see The Lovely Bones.

And by the sounds of it, everyone here has read the book.

Even I've read the book.

Can't say I rated it much. I read it, gosh, I must have been in my very late teens. So, hopefully, things have changed since then and I'll have a new appreciation for the story now that I'm... very much not in my late teens.

There's an announcement over the tannoy. I can't make out a word of it, but given the time, I imagine the house is now open and I should be heading into the auditorium.

I go over to the nearest door and, yup, looks like this is the right one for my seat.

I join the queue. A queue to get into the theatre.

Can't say I find myself in those all that often.

It's moving slow. Real slow.

The Rose must have the most complicated seating system in London if it's really taking this long to get people through.

But when I make it through the doors, the usher is off somewhere else and I'm left to figure out where I need to go all by myself.

I peer down at the row letters. Huh. Okay. Turns out I'm not in the stalls. Or at least, not in the stalls proper. By the looks of it, I'm in the circle of seats that surrounds the stalls. The stalls circle, if you will. I haven't seen many of those on my marathon. The Royal Opera House has one, of course. And bloody expensive it is too. And RADA has one in one of their theatres. Which are significantly less expensive. And now the Rose. Priced somewhere in between at twenty-five quid to sit at an angle to the stage.

The angle grows larger as I make my way around.

I pause, looking at a seat number, and someone makes to stand up.

"Sorry," I say. "I got confused by the three." I point at the seat number. It is a three, but something about being positioned in between a twelve and a fourteen tells me that they lost a digit along the way.

I keep going, until I'm almost at the end, and have a look at my seat.

It's a double-wide. Another thing you find mainly at drama schools.

Can't say I'm a fan of them. You know how little coordination I have. Timing your seating with the person sitting next to you is hard enough when you know them, but even if you're on a theatre-date with someone, unless you have some meticulous research beforehand, there's a good chance you're going to be sharing your bench with a stranger.

Just as I'm thinking these thoughts, my neighbour arrives, and we both grip onto the seat, half-crouching as we attempt not to ram the backs of each other's knees as we lower the seat down.

An usher comes over to talk to a sweet young couple, all of seventeen if they're a day, sitting in the row in front.

"Did we dispose of the bottle?" she says in her best headmistress tones.

"Yeah," says the boy.

"You left it outside?" she goes on.

He nods.

The usher gives them both a look, laden with significance, before leaving.

The girl sticks out her tongue at the usher's retreating back.

I love Gen Z.

Anyway, it looks like the doors are closing. I wonder if they're going to use that first line.

Blackout.

We all jump as a loud noise crashes into the auditorium.

An actor comes out.

"My name was Salmon, like the fish."

Oh.

I bloody hate that line. Put me off the whole book. "Like the fish?" Ergh.

As someone in the unusual-surname club, I disapprove of anyone who feels the need to be all twee about it like this. And yes, I know she's like, twelve or whatever. But still. Gross.

Anyway, we're off now.

The set is rather cool. There's a massive mirror over the stage. It's probably as a reflection of the duality of heaven and earth or something, but to me it's an indication of the bravery of the producer. You have to be damn sure you're going to fill a theatre if you are putting mirrors on stage, because damn, they can make a house look empty with even a few gaps in the audience.

I spend a lot of time looking at that mirror. Especially during the rape and murder scene. I know it's integral to the plot. But I've already been traumatised enough this week. The crows are still pecking away at my brain from my visit to the Kiln.

Still, the rest of the audience seems to be into it. They're giving it their all during the curtain call.

Bet they all have boring surnames and think the "like the fish” line is cute.

Ergh.

I need me a Scarecrow

Can you believe that this is my first visit to the Kiln Theatre? And I'm not talking since the rebrand either. I ain't never been to the Tricycle neither. Shocking. I know. Even I'm surprised. Or I was until I got on the train to get here. Honestly, people who battle the overground in the pursuit of theatre are gawddamned heroes, they really are. Like, I know I complain a lot about trains. But seriously, they are awful and I want no part of them. Once this marathon is over, I'm never going anywhere that isn't within a ten-minute walking distance of a tube station.

Anyway, I'm here. And there it is, the Kiln. Sitting right there, right on the high street. All cosy and tucked in between a cafe offering wood oven pizzas and the Daniel Day Lewis family's pharmacy, giving off some serious Tara Arts vibes.

Inside there's some sort of cafe or bar or something like that. I don't hang around to find out. My attention is entirely taken uo by the neon sign glowing at the end of a long corridor. A red neon sign glowing at the end of a very long, dark, corridor. A red neon sign saying "Kiln" glowing at the end of a very long, dark, brick corridor.

It's hella creepy.

I don't want to get all, you know, but walking along a very long, dark, brick corridor, towards a red light advertising itself as an oven... I mean, it feels a bit holocausty. Just saying.

Dark, red-lit corridors are already hitting those horror movie tropes. We don't need to be adding kilns to the mix.

I make it down the corridor though, and emerge into a buzzing... again, cafe or bar or possibly restaurant, I can't tell.

A sign points the way towards the box office and I follow it into a brightly lit space. All white walls and tiled floors, and relief on my part.

I stand around, marvelling at the TARDIS-like architecture going on around me.

This place is unexpectedly massive.

It's not like Tara Arts at all. That whole high street frontage is a total scam. This isn't some diddy local fringe venue. This place is glossy as shiz. This is a venue that has done some serious deals with the devil. Which explains the horror hallway.

I suppose I better pick up my tickets.

It's a great big box office. Long counter. With bollards to keep the queue in check. Not that there is one right now.

Terrified that I would be late, I'm in fact here far too early. Damn those trains for running on time.

"The surname's Smiles?" I tell the first box officer I reach. "S. M. I. L. E. S."

"Great!" he says, making a grab for the ticket box. "Can I take your first name too please?"

He absolutely can.

"That's one," he says, handing it over.

Right. Now what?

The cafe or bar or quite possibly restaurant, looks to be more on the restaurant side of the spectrum. No plopping oneself down at a table and taking up space without ordering. Over by the box office there are great big booths, large enough for ten to squeeze around the tables. Each of them seating a single person.

I don't really fancy sharing right now.

Over on the opposite side, there's a counter with high chairs. That looks pretty popular too. I'm not feeling it though. My short legs don't love sitting in high chairs. I like to keep my feet firmly on the ground.

But over there looks like a quite corner for me to stand in.

I hang back, waiting for someone to pass in front of me.

He stops, and glances over. "Box office is just that way," he says.

"Oh, I've got that sorted," I say with a wave of my hand which I hope suggests a casual appreciation for his concern.

Over by the bar, there's a clicking of switches and the lights go down.

We are clearly now in evening mode. Mood-lighting is a-go.

I check the time. Still a bit early to go in.

I should go buy a programme or something.

I look around. While there are waiters buzzing around everywhere, I can't see staff of the front of house-variety.

I go back to the neon sign, and find the entrance to the theatre.

Ah. There's a front of houser. She doesn't have programmes though. Huh. Maybe they just don't do them. Bit at odds with the schmancy vibe they've got going on here, but perhaps it's a statement about kilns, and paper burning, and I don't know... I don't pretend to understand what is going on anymore.

I show her my ticket.

As she sets about ripping it to shreds, I look down and notice something.

Down on the floor, propped up and balanced against the wall, are booklets with the When the Crows Visit artwork on their covers.

"Do you have programmes?" I ask doubtfully.

"I do!" she says, reaching down to grab one, "That's four pounds."

As we settle the business of me handing over a fiver and her finding my change, she goes over the rules. "Just to let you know, there's no readmission once the performance has started, but there is a twenty-minute interal." She pauses. "And no photography is allowed," she says, clearly clocking my sort.

Duly warned, I go inside.

Turns out I'm sitting in the back row, which is no bad thing, because it's a neat little theatre in here. One block of lightly raked seats, lined either side by narrow slips, and a balcony running around the top.

The stage is wide, and the set massive. Huge doors are separated by wide pillars.

All very nice. I make use of the near-empty auditorium to take some forbidden photos. A bell rings outside, and the rows begin to fill up.

An usher walks down the aisle holding a "please turn off your mobile phones," sign on a flappy bit of paper. He reaches the end, walks back up, and puts the sign away. Job done.

The house lights go down. The play begins.

I shift around in my seat.

This is.... well, there's a lot of shouting going on. And I am super not into shouting.

But also, I feel like the playwright is trying really hard to be Ibsen right now. Like, all the component parts are there. And yet, somehow, they don't seem to blend at all. There's this whole crow motif going on, but it feels tacked on. And extra. If this is Ibsen, it's Ibsen-by-numbers.

Next to me, my neighbour's phone lights up as she checks the time.

I glance over, wanting the answer to that question too, but I'm too late. She puts the phone away.

Guess I'll just have to wait then.

And wait I do. As the house lights go back up again, I make a dive for my phone. And... oh my gawd, only an hour has passed. Holy...

I get out my programme in an attempt to distract myself. Let's see what my four pounds has bought me.

There's a piece by the puppet-maker who made the crow. That's cool. It doesn't really say anything. Not about puppets or making them. All bollocks about the beauty of shadows. But, I know how hard it is to get artists to write anything real. So, whatever.

There's an article about the patriarchy in India. That's depressing.

A memorial piece from the playwright about a producer. Which is nice. Not sure the relevance to this play. It makes me think the playwright made a special request for this to go in for her own reasons, rather than anything that would interest or educate the audience. But again... artists.

There's also an intro from the artistic director. And it mentions Ibsen.

I fucking knew it.

I have to hard not to air-punch in satisfaction.

I. Fucking. Knew. It.

Ibsen-by-fucking-numbers.

Two girls sitting in the row ahead of me return, balancing pastry squares on paper napkins.

Those look good. I wouldn't mind me one of those.

No time to think about that though, the lights are going down and my neighbour hasn't come back.

Half the back row is empty.

Looks like I'm going to have to sit through this ersatz Ibsen all by myself.

Oh, oh lordy... okay. Now it's hitting. I was not prepared for all these details.

Gasps of horror float back through the audience and hit me right in the chest, but I'm too far gone to make my own. This is gross and I don't want these mental pictures that I'm getting here.

My stomach is churning and I am so not into this. But I can't move.

As the applause fades, I make my escape. I want to get out of here as fast as possible.

I race towards the station, half driven by the memories of those words clipping at my heels, and half by Citymapper saying I have three minutes to catch my train or I'll be stuck in Kilburn for another twenty.

I have no intention of hanging around.

I speed up, overtaking a couple walking ahead of me.

They're talking about the play.

"I was not expecting that," says one of them, with a shudder of disgust.

You and me both.

You. And. Me. Both.

Just like that

Second theatre of the day, and I’m only going round the corner. To The Place. The journey’s so short, that as I ponder the possibility of perhaps stopping off for lunch somewhere, I turn a corner, and arrive.

Ah. Well.

I suppose I could still go in search of food. But the thought of foraging on the mean streets of Bloomsbury is too much for me in my weakened state. The sun is out. And The Place has tables and chairs set up on the quite pavement.

I go and have a sit down and try to edit a blog post instead.

It’s not going well. I haven’t posted a blog in nearly a week.

I’ve been writing them. There’ll all there. Sitting neatly in the backend up my website. Unproofread. Lacking links and images.

I just can’t bring myself to get them over that final hurdle. It’s amazing that even half-dead I can still bang out a few thousand words before wheezing my way off to bed, but selecting a few photos to sit amongst those words? No. That’s too much and I simply can’t face it.

So, my blog posts remain unread. All evidence that I am, in fact, still out there, marathoning theatres, and checking off those venues, is lost to the internet.

Oh well.

You know I’m here.

I know I’m here.

Perhaps that’s enough.

I manage to correct a few typos before giving up.

Instead I huddle in my jacket, turning my face up to what passes as sunshine in October. This is my sort of weather. Bright and chilly.

And The Place is looking mighty handsome in it, with it’s old Victorian red bricks gleaming, and the hot pink banners barely wafting in the light breeze.

A few people emerge with drinks to take up tables, but for the most part, it’s just me. On this quiet road.

It isn’t the worst way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

But I can’t stay out here forever. And the time has come for me to rejoin the fray.

In I go.

The box office is tucked away in a side room. Low wooden benches with geometric cushions fit together like Tetris pieces. A notice on the wall proclaims that not only is Free Wifi available, you can also charge your phone if you so choose. There are magazines on the coffee tables. And potted plants on the windowsill, which wave signs, asking questions like “Why walk when you can dance?” which is a little disconcerting. But despite the intrusiveness of the fauna, it’s all very nice and comfortable in here.

I go over to the box office desk.

“Hi, the surname’s Smiles?” I tell the box officer.

“Lovely,” she says, looking through the ticket box and pulling out a ticket. “Can you confirm the postcode for me?”

I can. Funny how that gets easier the longer I’m not actually based in that postcode.

Bit worrisome too.

I’m moving back to Finchley soon, and fully expect to forget the postcode overnight.

She hands me the ticket. And a postcard advertising a not uninteresting upcoming show. Sharon Eyal. She’s the one I saw at Bold Tendencies. You remember. That ravey dance show in a car park.

I grab one of the familiar looking freesheets from the counter. These brown paper wrappers are all over my work at the moment, covering the freesheets for our own Dance Umbrella shows.

I find a spot in the corridor and have a look at it.

Hocus Pocus.

This show is doing quite the tour. It’s going all over the place. Six London venues. That’s quite a lot. I almost ended up booking to see it three times as it popped up everywhere. But date after date fell away, giving up room on my spreadsheet as other, trickier, venues muscled their way in and claimed those days for their own, until none remained. But here it is again. After the matinee I was originally planning to see this afternoon cancelled. Or rescheduled. To 2020. Which is no use to me at all. So here I am. After yet another spreadsheet re-jig. Just like magic. Abracadabra. Alakazam. Hocus pocus.

I go and have a look at the cafe.

It’s nice.

There’s a table full of colouring-in supplies at the back. And each of the tables has a small stack of building blocks just waiting to be played with.

There are also a strange number of children.

The strangeness being that there are lots of them.

Lots and lots of them.

Have I booked myself into a kids’ show?

I don’t recall this being a kids’ show.

I’ve been specifically not booking kids’ shows after I announced that I would no longer be booking kids’ shows. Because I’m a grown up. A kid-less grown-up. And I think it’s creepy for me to be turning up at these things without a kid in tow. Which I don’t have. I don’t even have access to one. I’m so old even my nephews are practically grown up now. One of them just started uni, which is no help to me at all.

I take a seat and try not to think about all the small people scurrying around.

There’s plenty to look at though.

The walls are covered in dance posters. Mainly Richard Alston ones, which is making me sad. His company is closing soon.

There’s another sign advertising the Free WiFi. But when I try to connect it asks for a password. Perhaps they meant the Premier Inn WiFi being pumped in from next door.

“Hello everyone!” says a woman, stepping out into the centre of the cafe space. “Welcome to The Place.” She starts on the usual spiel about turning off our phones, but just as I start to lose interest, her talk takes an unusual turn. “Make sure that there is no light other than what the artists are giving us in the theatre,” she says. “No phone. No watches.” Or, she says with a sinister low tone, the magic won’t work. “Be with your children and with the show.”

And with that, we are directed to the door on the far side.

I flash my ticket to the ticket checker on the door and she clicks at her clicker before nodding me through. In here is a corridor, painted that now familiar shade of hot pink. Through another door and we are into the auditorium.

I have expected to be stumbling through the darkness, but the house lights are on and ready to receive us.

The stage is floor level. And large, as you would expect for a dance venue. It doesn’t look like we’ll be getting much use out of all that acreage though. The set is nothing more than two twin strip lights, placed parallel, little more than a metre apart.

I glance over at the seats.  A huge bank of them. Purple. And with entirely the wrong numbers for what is on my ticket. Too low.

People squeeze around me in order to traipse up the stairs to their seats, inching their way down the rows and knocking the knees of those who’ve already taken their seats.

“Can I cross over the stage to go to the other side?” I ask the front of houser.

“Sure, sure,” she says, as if the answer was so obvious it did not warrant asking.

So I walk over the stage. A second later, my fellow audience members join me, and I lead them like Moses to the promised land of high seat numbers.

We’re told to sit in our seats, but warned that we may be moved. It’s all about getting those sightlines for the magic to work.

Seats on the aisles are all reserved. Presumble kept off sale as the angle is all wrong for that tiny set with its two parallel strip lights.

I’m as far to the edge as I can go. Surrounded by empty seats on either side.

Good thing. After my coughing fit this morning, I don’t want to be boxed in.

But my island-state is drawing attention. A bloke sitting in the front row turns round and sees me. Then, twisting back into place, he leans over to his companion, whispers something, and then with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, points at me.

He glances back and I look away, not wanting to embarrass him.

Okay, not wanting to embarrass myself. I admit it. I don’t want him knowing that I saw his gesture.

A young woman and her tiny little girl are brought in and sat in the front row. The two men switch seats so that the pointer doesn’t have to sit next to the child. I smirk. The big tough man who likes to point at women sitting all on their lonesome is unable to sit next to a little girl.

“Keep her in her seat,” the front of houser warns the young woman. “Don’t let her run forward into the stage.”

The young woman nods. She’s up to the task.

The lights dim, and then go out.

We are left with only the parallel strip lights.

And the green glow of the fire escapes.

Between the lights, a shape emerges from the darkness. A shifting creature of skin and flesh, spine and sinew. A back. It disappears. Only to be replaced by an arm. Then another. Then another. Then another. They disappear the way of the back, returning in forms and patterns that repeat and retreat.

We’re back to backs. Two of them this time. Bumping into one another like balls on an executive toy.

“Is this the show?” asks a small voice sitting behind me.

“Yes,” comes the grown-up response.

“Yeah, but, is this the whole show?”

The grown-up shush represents a grown-up level of covering up. They don’t know. I don’t know either.

Turns out, this is not the whole show. The backs bend back and soon we have faces. Two of them. Victor and Lucas. Friends in the most back-slappy, mock-wrestling, definitely-want-to-kiss kinda way.

Lost in the darkness, they battle knights, drop into the ocean, and meet giant sea creatures. As one is swallowed up by a giant mouth the tiny girl in the front row crawling into her mum’s lap, while further along, two less-tiny girls lean forward out of their seats to touch the haze currently coiling its way through the auditorium. Eventually, the two men find one another again, just in time to indulge in some totally friendly wrestling.

As “Lucas” and “Victor” (or rather, Ismael Oiartzabal and Michaël Henrotay-Delaunay) disappear the front of houser comes back out.

“The company would like to invite you to step forward, to see if you can work out how it’s done,” she says. “And if you don’t want to find out, which is also legitimate, make your way to the back.”

I totally want to find out.

I make my way onto the stage, standing back a little to let the small people get close to the set.

Oiartzabal and Henrotay-Delauney reappear, and turn on the lights. The ones behind the set. And suddenly, it’s revealed, in all it’s glory. Bars to hang from. Wind machines and fabric for waves. Even the giant mouth of a sea monster.

“What would you like to see?” asks Oiartzabal.

The questions come back fast. How did they float? How did they get eaten? Was that dry ice?

“Noooo. Not dry ice. It’s stage smoke.”

“Haze,” explains our front of houser who probably isn’t a front of houser but I don’t know what to call her at this point. “Dry ice would be dangerous.”

Oiartzabal gets out a small machine. “We use this long cigar,” he says pressing a button. And sure enough, a stream of white smoke spurts out the end.

And then it’s over. It’s time to go.

I skip out, utterly charmed by the whole thing.

“It’s so nice how they showed the children how it’s done,” says someone walking behind me.

Yes, it is nice. And being the overgrown child that I am, I’m glad they let the grown ups in too. I love all that shit.

Hammer Time

"Ten minutes? Okay, we have to go pick up our tickets anyway," I tell the hostess in Honest Burger.

When she offers us the tablet to put a phone number into, Sarah grabs it to do then honours. Probably for the best. I'm not all that good with phone numbers. Or tablets for that matter. There's a reason one of us works in print and the other in digital.

Yup, I've managed to drag another of my poor coworkers with me on a marathon outing. I've begun to suspect that they are all taking it in turns to accompany me. Like some kind of corporate social responsibility activity that everyone needs to take part in.

For me, it's more a matter of helping them understand why I'm such a grumpy arsehole in the office.

We nip across Festival Terrace and slip in through the side door to the Southbank Centre.

It's busy. There's a queue over at the box office.

I keep on walking.

"I think we have to go over to the other building," I say, hoping that we do, actually, have to go over to the other building, and I'm not just leading my poor colleague on a nice tour of the place.

Through the building, out the main doors, and past the fountains, dry now that summer is very much over.

The Purcell Room shares an entrance with the Queen Elizabeth Hall. I know this because on the signs over the door it says “Queen Elizabeth Hall,” and “Purcell Room.” What I'm kinda banking on is that they also share a box office.

"The surname's Smiles?" I say to the box officer. "... for the Purcell Room?"

He pulls the Ss from the fancy wooden ticket box. "Maxine?" he says, reading the ticket sitting right on the top.

"Oo. First in the pile," I coo, as if that makes me special in any way. But you know, with a surname beginning with S, it isn't often that I get to be first. So, I'm taking it.

Sarah laughs. Not sure if it's a laughing-with or laughing-at type of laugh, and I decide it's probably best not to ask.

We leave, making our way back towards the Southbank Centre proper.

"We should find somewhere to sit," I say, looking around. There is very clearly no where to sit in this place.

"Shall we try outside?" suggests Sarah.

So we do.

"What about here?" I say pointing to a red bench.

Sarah looks at it.

The seat is curved like a smile, and is very clearly not designed to be sat on.

"How about over here," she says, walking towards a concrete bench that is actually a bench, and not an art installation.

I follow on meekly behind.

As Sarah checks her phone to see if the Honest lady has messaged us, a line of strange apparitions float past us. Dressed in red. Their arms extended in a gesture of supplication.

"Oh my gawd! It's the Red Brigade!" I say excitedly.

"The who?"

"The Red Brigade," I repeat, as if I'd known about them forever and hadn't just read an article about them yesterday. "They're a performance art group that attach themselves to protests. They're hanging out with Extinction Rebellion at the moment."

"Right... that's cool... Shall we go check on our table? It's been ages."

I get up and skitter after Sarah as she heads back to Honest.

The Honest lady comes over. "I messaged you ages ago!" she says. My heart sinks. I really needed a burger. "Don't worry. I refused to give your table away. This way."

So we order burgers. And chips. And onion rings. Okay, I order onion rings. And... "oh my god, I was going to ask if you wanted a drink-drink. But they have milkshakes!"

So I order a milkshake.

"The burger, would you like that medium?" asks our waiter.

"Well done," I say, hurriedly. "Sorry, I'm not classy."

Across the table, Sarah smirks.

"Yeah, I love food, but I can't pretend to be a foodie. I'm tacky as fuck.”

"I'm learning so much about you tonight, Max."

Yeah, like the fact that flagging buses gives me anxiety and I'm a petty-arse bitch. She's never going to go out with me again.

At least the chips are good. So good that I don't even panic about how little time we have until I look at my phone and see that the show is starting in four minutes.

We've got to go.

It's raining.

Like, properly raining.

Like, tipping it down raining.

No time for an umbrella. We need to run.

"How are you running so fast?" shouts Sarah from behind me as I slide into the side door of the Southbank Centre.

"I have longer legs than you," I shout back. It's my one and only chance for my five foot three arse to say that to anyone, and I’m not about to let that opportunity go to waste.

We run through the foyers, and back out the front door. I reach into my bag and grab my umbrella, holding it out for Sarah.

"You take this, I need to go ahead and get a photo."

"Now? Do it afterwards!" shouts Sarah through the downpour, but I'm already off, crashing across the flooded terrace.

There's so much water on the ground it's slopping in through the doors, and we have to jump over the puddle to get inside.

"My feet are soaked!" says Sarah.

Mine are too. But there's no time to think of that.

I stop in the main foyer and look around. "I have no idea where we go from here," I admit.

"Let's ask," suggests Sarah, going off to talk to one of the welcome deskers.

Turns out the Purcell Room is over on the far side. Right at the back.

"Will it freak you out if I run to the loo?" asks Sarah.

I mean, yes it absolutely will. But I can pretend I won't.

"Give me my ticket, just in case," she says,

"Do you mind if I go in?" I ask as I rip a ticket off the ream.

"No. You have to," she says, making a dash for it.

It's true. I do have to.

The massive doorway to the Purcell Room is marked with a smart sign saying Purcell Room.

A queue snakes its way out into the foyer.

There's a man giving out freesheets.

"Can I get one of those," I ask.

"Are you here for Oona Doherty?" he asks, immediately clocking that I am not there for Oona Doherty.

"No, the Purcell Room?" I say. I have no idea what I'm here to see. Something dancey. I think.

Turns out there's a door to the Queen Elizabeth Hall is round here too, and I'm trying to nab myself the wrong freesheet.

I make my way to the front of the queue.

"First staircase up," says the ticket checker handing me a freesheet. The right one this time.

"Negative Space by Reckless Sleepers," it says.

That answers one question at least.

Inside and up the first staircase.

It's like a mini Queen Elizabeth Hall in here. Same seating. Same walls. Just a whole lot smaller.

The emergency exit over on the other side has extra messaging built in: Not to foyer.

Customised signage. This is a fancy joint alright.

Up on stage, the cast is already in place, leaning against the walls of a boxy white room.

I have a quick look at the freesheet.

The note on the back seems to have been written with the assumption that we're all fans of a work called Schrodinger. Which, considering I've never heard of Schrodinger, it's making it a tough read. Apparently, this piece is the exact opposite. So, presumably, the cat hasn't been poisoned, is out of the box, and is busy scratching the experimenter's eyes out.

I like it already.

Sarah appears.

"It looked way more sold out online," she says, indicating the empty seats on the side.

"I think they kept them offsale," I tell her. "Because of the walls of the set. The ones at the back were only a tenner because they are restricted view. But those ones at the front must be really really restricted."

We both look at the set, with its chunky walls taking up a very narrow area right in the middle of the stage.

"Maxxxxx.... this is why you're the blogger! I would never have thought of that."

Nah. It's just Sarah lives a normal life with normal things to think about. Do you know how hard it was to pin her down to a date to go to the theatre? Stupid hard. There was a waiting list of people queueing up for her attention. I'm not even kidding. Sarah has friends. Imagine what that's like...

"Wait," says Sarah, looking at me properly for the first time. "Are those your glasses?”

Ah. Yes. I may have got my specs out while she was in the loo.

"Yeah... I only wear them for shows."

"Really?"

Yeah. Really. And now that I hear myself say it, it does sound rather weird. I should be wearing them all the time. But like... I'm vain, so...?

The ushers close the doors and slip into the front row. Right on the side. I hope they can see from where they are. It'd be awful spending the whole show staring at a wall.

The audience hushes itself into silence.

We all look at the cast.

The cast looks at us right back.

It's like we're all waiting for someone to make the first move.

It's the cast who break first.

Trapdoors open. Heads pop out.

The auditorium doors creek open and the latecomers are brought in. All sat in the empty seats by the side. The proverbial naughty step for theatre-goers.

Up on stage, a game of wall-touching starts.

Hammers are wielded. And then dropped.

And then the destruction starts.

"Jesus," breathes Sarah as the hammer plunges into the plasterboard wall.

She's not the only one. Shocked murmurs and nervous laughter eeks its way around the auditorium. I jump in my seat more than once.

There's no music. No dialogue. Nothing to hide our giggling shame.

As the walls start imploding, the exclamations grow.

"Oh my gawd!" winces Sarah as someone drops backwards through a wall.

An hour later, it's over.

"I really enjoyed that," I say, still clapping as the cast disappear offstage.

"Me too! It was really good."

A cast member reappears, clasping his hands and waiting for us all to redirect our attention back to the stage. "We're just going to take ten or fifteen minutes to... wind down, and then do a bit of a Q and A," he tells us. "So if you have any questions, we'll be back after we've had ten minutes to... calm down."

"The only question I have is whether I can have a go with the hammer," I say.

It did look very therapeutic. And it's not like they'll be getting much use out of that plasterboard now. It's shot to shit.

I race towards the stage to get a photo of what is left of the set. A line builds up next to me of audience members doing the exact same thing.

"Here's a good angle," I tell Sarah, just knowing she'll want a pic, being the fancy photographer she is.

We both get our photos. Me for the blog. Her for the 'gram.

It's time to leave.

"You know," I muse as we head back out into the foyer. "It made me think that the perfect man is one who gives you a flower, hugs you when things are getting intense, and then lets you push him right through a wall."

"That's so true," sighs Sarah.

And with that in mind, it's time to go, before the whole place gets flooded out.

The Pajama Game

“This is the final station where a TFL validated rail card or Oyster card can be used,” comes a voice over the tannoy as we approach Watford Junction. 

And so I reach the very edge of the London Theatre Marathon. My Oyster card will take me here and no further.  

Thank fucking gawd. 

I’ve never been to Watford before. 

Not even when there was a James Graham play in the Watford Palace. Which is quite the statement as I love me some James Graham. 

But apparently even this love has limits. And that limit is Watford. 

The play actually ended up transferring to the Bush, and I saw it there, so it all worked out just fine. But there’s no escape this time around. It’s now or never. I’m going to fucking Watford. 

“Stay behind the yellow line,” shouts a station worker as we make our way down the platform. “Please! We all want to go home.” 

And with that, I head towards the exit. 

Outside, the pavements are empty. But the roads are clogged with cars. 

I end up having the pick my way through a traffic jam just to cross a junction. 

But there it is, up ahead. It’s sign blazing out red in the darkness. “PALACE.” The Watford part presumably not requiring the neon, as we are, as I have said, in Watford. 

I stand on the opposite side of the road, trying not to get run over by a reversing van, to take my exterior shots. 

No one goes in. No one comes out. And through the windows I can’t make out the tiniest shred of movement. 

I begin to worry that I perhaps got the wrong day. That they are completely dark on this chilly Tuesday evening. But no, there’s someone, coming down the road. I keep a close eye on her, standing in the shadows like the creepy lurker that I am. 

She pauses in front of the doors. 

I hold my breath. 

She carries on walking. 

Dammit. 

I hold back, scanning the pavement for any signs of life. 

Eventually a man arrives, walking with purpose if not exactly speed. 

I wait for him, glancing down at my phone in order to pretend that I’m not a weird stalker. I’m just reading a text. From a friend I definitely have. 

He’s approaching the doors.

He’s slowing down. 

He’s reaching out.

He’s grasping the handle. 

This is it. He’s going in! 

And so am I! 

I skitter across the road and slip my way through the doors before the man has even managed to get himself up the short flight of steps in the foyer. 

An usher spots me. “Hello!” he says, spotting me looking around, trying to get my bearings. 

“Err, box office?” 

“Just this way.” He points down the corridor towards the large desk tucked away right at the end.  

“Hello there!” says the box officer as I approach. 

Everyone is very friendly this evening. 

“Hi!” I say, attempting to equal his enthusiasm. I don’t think I’m quite pulling it off. “The surname’s Smiles?” 

He jumps into action, diving into the ticket box to pull out my ticket. 

“Is there a programme?” I ask, spotting something large and programmey-looking at the end of the counter. 

“Err,” he says, taken by surprise. This is clearly not a question he gets called upon to answer all that often. “No there isn’t a programme, errr…” He visablly pulls himself together. “Let me get my words out. Um. The people on the door should have a… crew sheet?” He pauses, puzzling over that term. 

I think he means a cast sheet, but I’m not correcting him. 

“I don’t think there is an actual programme,” he finishes. 

“Even better!” I say, meaning it. Cast sheets are better than programmes because cast sheets are free. I mean, yes, they lack the brilliantly commissioned programme notes, the glossy double page spreads showing off beautiful production photos, the scrupulously edited biographies, but, eh, it’s still a piece of paper to take home at the end of the night. And I repeat: it’s free. 

And by the looks of it, the front of housers are busy getting them all sorted. 

They’ve taken over a long bench, and are sorting through various papery elements. 

“There’s more coming out of the printer,” says one. 

“Are we giving everyone both?” is the reply. 

“Yup!” 

Excellent. It looks like I won’t be walking away with just one piece of paper tonight. I’ll have two! 

I begin to realise that the front of housers probably don’t appreciate me looming over them as they sort the handouts into different piles. 

I take a stroll to see what the other end of the corridor can offer me. Turns out, it’s the cafe. And everyone’s in here! 

I find an empty spot on one of the high chairs by the counter on the side, and try very hard not to think about how much of a berk I must look like with my legs swinging limply, two feet off the ground. 

Tables and chairs fill up rapidly, and by twenty past this corner of the building is pretty darn full. 

“She said everything is like the original,” says a woman, showing her group the freesheet. “Except for this bit.” She points to a paragraph. 

“But otherwise it’s like the play?” 

“That’s what she said. Just this is different.” 

“How does that work then?” 

“She didn’t say.” 

How frustrating. I guess we’ll all just have to watch it then. 

A voice comes over the sound system. “Please take your seats, the performance will begin in three minutes. The performance will begin in three minutes.” 

My ticket says to take the door on the left. So I head to the door on the left. Well, the door that says it’s on the left. We both know that I’m still figuring out the whole left-right thing.  

“Lovely,” says the ticket checker as she checks my ticket. “Let me-“ 

“Could I get one of those?” I ask, rudely interrupting her in my desperation to get my hands on the freesheet action. 

She hesitates. “Yeah, of course,” she says, regaining her flow. She plucks a card and a sheet of paper from her pile and hands it to me. 

With that accomplished, I head inside the auditorium. 

And will you look at that. It’s full of proper old-school twirly bits. There are boxes. And gilding. And mouldings.  

No chandelier though. 

Or rather, there is, but it isn’t a glittery crystal fountain, but a snake-like coil of neon pressed against the more traditionally Edwardian ceiling. 

I’m in the front row. Which is not my preferred seating choice, but the proscenium arch makes me feel safe. 

I dump my bag in my seat and snap a few pictures of the auditorium. 

It’s very sparse in the whole audience thing. 

Turns out, what can fill a cafe is not nearly enough to fill a theatre. 

By the looks of it, both the circle and the balcony have been shut off. 

It looks like a Gaslight revival on a freezing cold Tuesday evening in Watford is not that much of a draw.  

I’m surprised by that. 

No, seriously. I am. 

I am well excited for this production. And have been ever since it was announced. I’ve had this trip planned for months. Months! 

Although, to be fair, if I hadn't been prepared to make the journey for a new James Graham…  

Anyway, the play starts. We’re in a women’s refuge and the residents are putting on a play. Gaslight. 

They’re in their own clothes. Hannah Hutch’s Nancy seems to be in her duper comfy-looking jammies already, while Sandra James-Young's Elizabeth has opted for some sort of nightdress and house coat combo. And they are all working through some personal shit as they take on the roles of the residents of the Manningham household. With its disappearing paintings, and dimming lights. 

And it’s like, super intense. And a little bit distressing. I find myself wincing as Jasmine Jones’ Jack chews over a muffin, watching Sally Tatum’s Bella with calculating eyes as he plots his next move to torment and upend her. 

As Tricia Kelly, acting as both the master of ceremonies and Inspector Rough, calls time on the action, she sends both the actors and us off for a tea and tissue break. 

The curtain decends. We are left in darkness. The house lights aren’t coming up. I look around, wondering if this was part of the play. Was Jack wondering around above us, messing with the gaslight? But no, a few seconds later, the house lights come up and the auditorium is filled with music as Kesha tells us she don’t need a man to be holding her too tight and the members of Little Mix demand we listen up because they’re looking for recruits. 

I have a look at the freesheets. 

One is just a scrappy thing run off the photocopier, explaining how the cast have worked with the team from the Watford Women’s Centre Plus. The other is much fancier. All glossy and professional, with the cast list and headshots and whatnot. But both have a note at the bottom. 

“This show touches on potentially distressing themes around domestic abuse and specifically gaslighting. If you are affected by the themes in today’s production please talk to a member of our staff.” 

I’m almost tempted to go ask an usher what happens when someone comes to them, but I fear that might set off alarm bells, and I don’t want to be the cause of any of that.  

The second half starts. We’re back in the Manningham household and things are kicking the fuck off.  

Somewhere at the back a phone goes off, and is hastely silenced. 

Honestly, I’m glad of the distraction. My heart was beating at a thousand beats per second. 

That thot Nancy is playing games and I am not able to deal with it. 

At the end, the women of the refuge all gather for a group hug. And I kinda feel I want in on that action. I’m really in need of having someone pat my head and tell me it’ll all be okay. 

Instead I have to venture back out into the freezing cold and get myself out of Watford. 

Still, I did get something out of this. I found out I’m a lot stronger than I thought. If James Graham brings another play here... I might not even wait for the transfer. 

Those kicks were fast as lightning

As if 2019 wasn't hard enough, we've got yet another new theatre to deal with. Well, you don’t. But I do. And that's bad enough.

The Troubadour Wembley Park. Sister venue to the Troubadour White City, which is currently dark after the... limited… success of the Peter Pan transfer from the National.

It seems the good ole NT have learnt from their mistakes, and are throwing every penny of their marketing budget at the next expedition of one of their shows. The walkway to Wembley is lined with huge banners advertising War Horse. I'm not gonna lie. It all looks fucking spectacular, with those famous arches silhouetted against the night sky in the background.

It's almost a shame to leave the crowds behind in order to turn down the dark and bare side street that will take me to the actual theatre.

Now, War Horse should be a sure bet. It managed to squat in the West End for years, and has done more national tours than I can count. War Horse is fucking amazing. No one is disagreeing with that. Not even me. Which is why it might surprise you to find out that I am not actually here to see War Horse. I'm checking off this venue before War Horse has even managed to step out of the stable.

Not because of timings or anything like that.

I just... can't face it. I do not want to be sitting in a big barn of a room, losing my shit, crying over Joey. Or, even worse. sitting in a big barn of a room, losing my shit, not crying over Joey. Because if the White City branch of the Troubador empire has taught me anything, big barns are atmosphere vacuums. And there's a good chance the story, even though it is epic both in scale and scope, will get totally lost.

But hey, maybe I'm wrong. I haven't even seen the theatre. I'm speculating here. For all I know, Wembley Park’s Troubadour could be a intimate fringe venue, with weekly poetry readings, squashy sofas, and a paddock out back for the puppets to graze happily in.

Something tells me that's not the case.

The Troubadour looms over the Lidl next door. It's red neon lettering is stark in the darkess.

There's a gap in the fencing and I pause, wondering how I'm supposed to get from here, over there.

This must be a common reaction because a security person comes forward. "Shaolin?" she asks.

Yup. I'm here to see The Soul of Shaolin. Because I'm too good for War Horse. Don't want to be crying in some tacky barn conversion in Wembley. So I'm going to be watching some fake-monks instead. And it's not like I haven't even see the real monks. Because I totally have. But here we are. Turning up my nose at puppets while I go watch kung fu.

"We're just checking bags," she goes on, pretending not to notice the tiny breakdown I'm having there on the pavement. "And then you can go in."

I open my bag for her and she has a look inside. The contents being deemed safe, and therefore acceptable, she steps back to let me pass.

"Go to the curtains," she says. "The box office is on the opposite side."

It takes me crossing the courtyard and reaching the massive doorway for me to realise that yes, she really did say curtains, and yes, they really are there. The heavy fabric hangs over the loading-dock sized opening. Presumably to keep the heat in without having the need to result to anything as prosaic as actual doors.

Inside, there, on the opposite wall, is the promised box office. On the far side is the bar, backlit by a series of rainbow panels. Above my head, red and pink neons zig-zag their way across the ceiling.

But, despite the fancy lighting design, I can't help but feel that this place looks really familiar. And no, it's not what you're thinking. It isn't like the other Troubadour at all. The ceilings are three times as high. The foyer four times as big. It's like being inside an aircraft hanger, or... oh gawd. That's it. It reminds me of the factory my parents ran when I was a kid. It has those same grey corrugated walls. The same huge doorways, large enough to back a lorry against. The only thing missing is the smell of melting plastic from the injection moulding machines.

Oh well.

I guess factory-chic is cool. Just probably not for those people whose after-school activities involved fishing plastic brush handles out of the vast cooling tanks for hours on end before falling asleep on the office sofa while waiting for a parent to remember to take you home.

Still, that's my baggage. Not yours.

I press on to the box office.

Both of the box officers are busy so I hang back, waiting my turn.

As one transaction finishes, the box officer looks over and smiles at me. But the customer she's just finished with isn't ready to move on. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, sorting through all the sections to make sure it's worthy of receiving his tickets.

I attempt a step forward, but he doesn't even glance up at me. He's too busy making sure his receipts are in order.

The box officer's smile is beginning to look a little strained.

Fuck it. I'm going in.

I march my way over to the counter, turning my shoulder to indicate to this counter-hoarder that he is no longer welcome here, and he should take his wallet-business elsewhere.

Miracle of miracles, it works.

The box officer and I grin at each other.

"Hi!" I say, feeling very powerful right now. "The surname's Smiles." See, didn't even phrase it as a question. That's how much of gawd-damn commanding I am.

She doesn't even ask my postcode before handing over my ticket. It's clear I know what ticket I'm picking up, and I won't be delayed by nonsense questions.

That business accomplished, I'm off to see what else I can find happening on the factory floor.

There's the bar, of course, but I have no interest in that.

My attention is entirely on what's happening on the other side of the bar.

There seems to be some sort of staircase-action going on. A series of steps, leading precisely nowhere, with the sole apparent purpose of providing seating. It's doing its job marvellously well. Every level is packed with bottoms.

Next to the steps, is a merch desk. I wander over to have a look what's on offer. Troubadour umbrellas and totes nestle up against fans and silk scarves, presumably containing some connection to the Shaolin lot. No programmes though. I double-check the price list. I can buy Buddha beads in three different size variations, but nothing containing a cast list. What they do have, however, is a sign stating that there'll be a post-show photo op for those that drop their coin at the merch desk.

I am a little bit tempted by the fans, but for the price they're charging I could be well on my way to getting one of the fancy Duvelleroy ones I love so much. So I pass.

"The house is now open for this evening's performance of The Soul of Shaolin," comes a voice over the sound system.

I check the time. Too early to go in. But I also seem to have exhausted the possibilities in the foyer.

I walk around, checking I haven't missed anything.

Above the bar is a panel pointing the way to Door One. I get out my ticket. I need door two. There doesn't seem to be a matching panel for door two. The place where I'd expect there to be a panel advertising the whereabouts of door two, is blank. Broken.

I go around anyway, trusting the chain of pointing neon light on the back way to guide me.

Sure enough, there's a door around here. Door 2.

There's a big group here, all fussing about with their tickets.

I hang back waiting for them to finish.

Unfortunately, door two is positioned right on route to the toilets, and I find myself getting bashed by every parent rushing past with a desperate child.

"We're got door one," says a woman walking past, staring at her ticket. "Door one? This is door two."

Another woman comes the other way, also staring at her ticket. "Entrance door two," she reads. "Two, two, two."

They both look up just in time to avoid a collision.

When it's my turn to get my ticket checked, I step forward, feeling a little bit frazzled.

"Thanks for waiting!" says the ticket checker, pointing her scanner at my barcode. "Oh dear," she mutters to herself. "The scanner isn't working."

"It's always my tickets," I tell her. I think they sense my hatred of technology and my fear of the impending takeover of e-tickets. The barcodes squirm under my death-glares.

"Really?" she laughs. "No, it's not you."

Rude. I can totally make a barcode squirm if I want to.

"I'll tell the next person who has trouble you said that. 'It's the scanner. Not my ticket.'"

She laughs again. "There we go," she says triumphantly as the scanner beeps. "Thanks for waiting. Enjoy the show!"

And in I go, Through a twisting corridor made of black curtains, and up a flight of stairs, into the auditorium.

"V14?" I say to the usher waiting at the top.

"Lovely," she says. "It's that way. Up the stairs."

I follow the direction she's pointing, go up the stairs, and look at the seat numbers. They'll all in the forties and escalating.

I don't think that’s right.

Back down the stairs, I pass the usher and go the other way. Ah. That's better. The numbers are all in the teens over here.

There's a film playing on the screen up on the stage. Something about the difference between western and Chinese art. I watch it suspiciously, wondering if I've booked myself into some sort of propaganda performance. The martial arts answer to Shen Yun.

Film finished, a pre-show announcement rings out. No filming. No flash-photography.

The audience takes this as a challenge, and immediately switch their phones to the camera app as soon as the cast comes out.

Most of them remember to turn the flash off.

"Is this a movie?" pipes up the small boy sitting behind me.

"Just watch," says the small boy's dad, getting his phone out.

"Yes, but is it like a movie?"

If it is, it's not quite Crouching Tiger.

The fight scenes may be impressive, but the storytelling comes via a series of long paragraphs, projected onto the back of the stage between scenes, thereby making the actual performance entirely redundant.

The auditorium shakes as people move about, crashing down the stairs as they take loo breaks, or make more permanent bids for escape. It's hard to tell.

A man sitting a few rows ahead of me lifts his phone and starts filming.

An usher sprints into action, standing sentinel at the end of the row and flashing his torch at the ground a few times. it doesn't work.

"Excuse me," he says to the person sitting in front of me, squeezing into that row and making his way along. But by the time he gets there, the phone has been lowered. The usher stands, and then a second later, makes his way back out again.

As soon as he's gone, the phone is raised once more.

The interval rolls around soon enough. The projection changes to tell us that merch is available from the foyer, and they'll be a post-show photo-op for anyone who cares to buy themselves some Buddha beads.

Back out in the foyer, people walk around clutching flyers in lieu of a programme. I don't see anyone with buying beads.

"This evening's performance of The Soul of Shaolin will begin in five minutes. Filming and flash photography are strictly prohibited inside the auditorium."

We head back inside.

"Good evening and welcome once again," comes a voice over the sound system. "May we remind you that filming and flash photography are strictly prohibited inside the auditorium."

The auditorium is a sea of phone screens as act two starts.

To be fair, if you're going to focus on banning the flash, it does rather suggest that everything else is totally fine.

I sit back and watch the rest of the not-unimpressive action, clapping dutifully in between acts.

As we get to the end, a message flashes across the backdrop.

They are not actors, it informs us. They just love kung fu.

That's sweet. Does kinda make me wonder why they insisted on presenting a narrative work rather than just a kung fu showcase, but still: sweet.

"Photo sessions right here if you want to line up!" directs an usher on the way out.

Two small, robed figures, stand, ready to pose.

There's quite a queue already.

Maybe I should have bought a fan after all...

Yeah, but are we sure he's dead?

"Soup?

"Soup!

"SOUP!"

Wow, someone around here really wants soup. Funny, people used to call me 'Soup.' It was a nickname I had, back in the day. It was always super awkward whenever people screamed "SOUP!" at me in the street.

"SOUP!"

Oh shit.

"Hello!" I say, my eyes landing on a very familiar-looking face.

You should recognise her too. It's Weez. Or Janet. Or Weez. I still haven't got the hang of this Twitter-nickname-in-real-life thing.

"I suppose I could have used your real name, but I'm not comfortable with that just yet."

Yeah, real names are weird.

"Where are you off to?" I ask. We're standing opposite Waterloo station. The potential destinations for a theatre-nerd around here are endless.

Janet (Weez?) points at the imposing theatre looming over us. "There," she says. She's off to see A Very Expensive Poison at The Old Vic. Or possibly The Very Controversial Loos at The Old Vic. One of those.

"I'm down there," I say, doing my own point, but this one in the other direction. "I'm going to the young one."

"For the bloody wedding."

"Yeah, I fucking love Lorca." That's true. I do fucking love Lorca.

"I worry about Lorca," says Weez (or should it be Janet?).

"I think it's too late to worry about Lorca," I say carefully. I think Lorca is dead. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I'm almost entirely positive that Lorca is dead. But then, it's so hard to tell with playwrights. You can never truly be sure whether they have actually crossed over, or are just really busy producing esoteric farces in their writing shed.

"Fair," says Janet with a nod. "Who am I going to worry about then?"

After some discussion, we settle on Nicholas Hytner. Well, I mean, someone has to.

And with that, we part, to take up our positions at opposite ends of The Cut.

On my end, there's a bit of a queue at the box office, but it moves fast, with the box officers leaning out over their desk and waving us forward as they finish with each person.

When it's my turn, I give my surname.

"Maxine?" she asks. I confirm that yup, that's my name. "Row B," she says. "Just around this corner."

It's far too early to go in, so I double back, sneaking my way past the box office queue towards the programme seller I'd spotted on my way in.

"That's four pounds, please," he says when I ask for one.

I rummage around in my bag. I've been toting around a new one for a past week or so. It's big. Really big. Which is great. I love it. But it does make paying for things a teensy bit difficult.

"Sorry, my bag's too big," I explain as I feel around for my purse. "I can never find my wallet."

He laughs indulgently, as one does when a woman who is old enough to be your... aunt... is trying to play off her patheticness with humour.

I do find the purse though, give him a fiver, and get a programme, with change, in return.

I check the time.

It's still far too early. I try walking around the bar, but the thing about the Young Vic bar is that, it's really nice. And everyone knows it's really nice. Which means that it's super crowded. And I don't do well with crowds.

So I go outside, and find a vacant patch of wall to lean against.

There's a big group of young people here. They look super excited.

"You can go in now!" says one of them. "You might want to go in and look at the set. Especially the lower sixth. Go in! Go in! Go in!"

It takes my brain way too long to realise that the lower sixth is not some bottom portion of the set, but a year group. And these young people are actually here on a school trip.

I am so old, and so tired, it's not even funny anymore.

Well, fuck it. I'm also going in to have a look at the set. I'm hoping it's an interesting one if a teacher is getting all hopped up about it.

I squeeze myself through the crowds clogging the gaps between the tables, looping my way around the bar towards the door to the main space at the Young Vic.

The wall has been painted up with an arrow to show the way. "Blood Wedding," it says, in an exact reenactment of all my personal nuptial-based fantasies.

There's a young usher on the door. I mean a Welcome Teamer. Sorry. I almost forgot we were at the Young Vic tonight. No ushers here. Anyway, he thanks the equally young men ahead of me with a "cheers!" but drops the laddishness as I step forward. It seems that I've been upgraded from aunt to full-on grandmother, as is my proper place in this world.

"It's one hour fifty with no readmission," he explains carefully before waving me through.

Inside the door, just as the dark corridor splits of into two opposite directions, another usher, shit, I mean, another Welcome Teamer, lies in wait. To welcome team us.

"This way?" I say, pointing down one corridor. I've read the signage. I know where I'm going.

"That's right!" she confirms cheerfully, and I'm on my way.

There's a short line of people queueing down here.

They must be the lottery ticket folks, waiting to be told where they'll be sitting.

I've done that before. Bought one of those tickets and hung out in the corridor until everyone else has been seated, then sent in to fill in the gaps.

I considered going for it again this time. A bit of experience to tell you about. But... eh. My ticket was only a tenner anyway. And nine months into the marathon I'm pretty exhausted. Let's keep this shit as easy as we can for the last leg of this challenge, shall we?

I keep on walking, until the wall gives way to an opening into the auditorium.

A Welcome Teamer stands waiting.

"B57?" I ask, showing him my ticket.

"B57. B57," he repeats look around him. "Err, over here, and... yeah... second row."

He points across the stage to aisle on the opposite side.

Tonight, we're in the round. Or rather, we're in the octagon.

I go up the steps, to the second row, and squint at the seat on the end. The seat numbers are on tiny little metal squares, slipped into equally tiny frames at the top of the backrest. Except this little square is making a break for it. I thwart its plans, tapping it back into place.

57.

That's me.

And what a funny seat it is.

Slightly apart from its neighbour and set at an angle. Like that single jump seat you find in black cabs, which the drunkest girl on any night out will always manage to find herself sitting in, and falling off, on the way home.

I don't think I'll be falling off this one.

It's wide and comfortable, and there's a board in front of my legs that will prevent my tumbling forward into the front row.

What it doesn't have, is a great view.

Oh, I can see most of what's going on in the octagon. For all that teacher's encouragement to look at the set, there isn't all that much to look out. Just a pile if jumbled chairs in the middle and a cross hanging from the ceiling. That's what I can see at least. But I suspect there is something else hidden from view by the wall of the aisle on my side.

Perhaps I should have got myself one of those lottery tickets after all.

I get out my programme and have a look. There's a transcribed conversation between the director Yael Farber, and Kwame Kwei-Armah, which kinda confirms to me that the Young Vic is pushing hard into the cult of the artistic director. But whatever. Then there's another discussion with the director, but this one is with the adaptor, Marina Carr. That's interesting. I guess.

But between these two spreads is a timeline of Lorca's life, and I am relieved to confirm, that yes, he is indeed, no longer in the land of the living. He was executed in 1936.

They never found his grave though...

Just saying.

The Welcome Teamers make their way around the octagon, hoping up the stairs to make sure we're all behaving before the performance starts.

"If you have your phones out, now's the time to turn it off," our Welcome Teamer says before slipping into a seat on the end of the front row.

I put my phone away.

I'm sitting right behind him.

I better be good.

The lights dim, and I tuck my hands under my thighs. I'm really quite excited about this play. Because I love Lorca. I've already said that. But like, seriously, I really love Lorca. And if this wedding is bloody enough to set Janet worrying about him, well, I am here for it. I want to see a stage soaked with the red stuff. I want the floorboards stained permanently. I want to come away from this with a dry cleaning bill.

And things are looking promising. There's a woman on her knees, cleaning up a puddle of some sinister liquid or other off the floor.

It isn't blood though. And I immediately lose interest.

Not for long though. It is Lorca after all.

He manages to create drama even without inflicting fatal wounds on all his characters.

A simple boy marries girl is marred by a backstory worthy of G.R.R. Martin, a bunny-boiler of an ex-boyfriend, and, you know, parents.

Through into a mix Thalissa Teixeira as a sentient moon, some aerial running from Gavin Drea, and Aoife Duffin wearing the cutest little button boots, and you've got yourself one hell of a play. Plus, when Drea and David Walmsley take off their shirts to have a knife fight... that is some high-class art right there.

I don't even mind that I have to wait right for the end for them to unscrew the caps on the fake blood bottles. It was worth it.

Fucking weird though.

I'm beginning to worry about Lorca.

Are we really sure he's dead? I could do with a really niche comedy right about now.

The Art of the Dead Woodlouse

I'm at Kings Place. I'm not sure what Kings Place is. But I'm here all the same.

Apart from having a name whose lack of apostrophe is making me itchy, Kings Place is also a great big, glass-fronted, building just behind King's Cross station. There are banners out front decorated with soundwaves that have apparently been lifted from... The Guilty Feminist podcast. And suchlike. Ceramics fill the windows. They're for sale. If you have a couple of grand to drop on something that looks like a mouldy ship's model. I don't, so I go inside.

The confirmation email said to pick up my tickets from the box office just inside the door.

That was useful, because without that instruction I would have wandered off into this space in an open-mouthed gaze.

It's fucking massive. With those towering ceilings you find in fancy new office blocks, where you can see into each of the tens of floors overlooking the foyer. Like a slice has been taken out of the most boring layer cake in history.

I go over to the reception (which, I guess, is also a box office) and give my surname.

“And the postcode please?" asks the box officer as she pulls my ticket from the ticket box.

I give it, and get handed a ticket for my troubles.

Right then. Time to investigate this joint.

On the far side it looks like there is some sort of cafe action going on. Next to it, closed off and guarded by a doorman, is: The Rotunda. I'm guessing that's a schmancy restaurant.

There's a great big long table, long enough to restage the Red Wedding, overlooking two massive escalators, descending into (and rising from) a pit of a basement.

According to the signage on the wall, that's where the theatre spaces live.

I ride down, adding to my mental list of theatres with escalators in them (Royal Opera House, Gillian Lynne, artsdepot...).

We sail past a gallery level with lots of terrifying paintings, and land next to a sculpture that I'm pretty sure is meant to be a dead woodlouse.

Two young men pause to look inside at the poor curled up skeleton within.

I look around for Hall Two. That's where I'll be spending my matinee today. Turns out it's just behind a small seating area.

The doors aren't open yet, but the sofas are already crammed with people ready to launch themselves at them. Opera crowds are keen. Combine with that unallocated seating and you've got a pile of people willing to turn up an hour early to join the scrum.

They're quiet now. Poised. Waiting. Reading programmes.

Ooo. I want me one of those. I frickin' love a programme.

There's a cloakroom desk over on the other side, close to the doors. And there seems to be some sort of sign on the counter. I can't read it from here, but I'm betting it's advertising the price of programmes.

I go over and yup - £3.50. I can do that.

"Would you like to pay by cash or card?" the front of houser asks.

I choose card. I still haven't bought the ticket for my evening show, and I'm worried I'll need my notes to get it on the door.

He presses a few buttons on his tablet, and the card machine instructs me to do my thing.

“There's two pieces to it," explains the front of houser. "The Chamber Opera and the Text," he says, handing over not one, but two programmes.

I look at them in wonder, my heart pounding with the thrill of being given two whole programmes.

“Love a twofer," I tell him, scuttling away with my prizes.

The doors are opening now. Time to go in.

I show my ticket to one of the ushers. “Please sit on the far side,” she says, letting me pass.

Ah. Okay.

I can see what she’s after. A slim apron pushes out from the stage, and rows of chairs have been set up on either side.

I pick my way over to the far side.

The front row is filling up, but I dismiss that, sliding down to the end of the second row.

“It’s unallocated,” explains an usher to a confused audience member. “So technically you can sit wherever you want. We’re just trying to fill up the rows.”

He chooses the second row too. Next to me.

“Is the screen changing?” asks a lady indicating the large screen above the stage. “Dear Marie Stopes,” it reads. That’s the name of the opera we’re seeing.

“I’m not sure…” replies the usher.

“I want to make sure that I can see it if it does…”

The usher nods. Yes, she wouldn’t want to miss that.

“Is that seat free there?” she asks, pointing to an empty seat in the front row.

He obligingly goes off to ask the man sitting next to it. Turns out it is free, and she is able to sit in it, content in the knowledge that should the screen change, she’ll be able to see it.

The musicians come out and start setting up as the last of the audience wander about trying to pick the best seats. It’s getting tricky now. Both front rows are full and no one wants to sit further back. Not when there is no rake going on.

I look around.

It’s a nice room.

Very high ceilings.

The walls are painted a calming shade of dark blue grey. There’s wood panelling. But like, the modern sort. That doesn’t look like it was ripped from a murder mystery novel. The seats are fairly comfortable and aren’t too closely packed.

It’s all rather nice.

Over on the opposite side, a woman has perched herself on the side of the stage to read her programmes. I can’t quite tell why she has perched herself on the side of the stage to read her programmes. It doesn’t look like a very comfy place to sit. And she has a chair. I can see it. Just a few feet away from the spot on the stage that she has claimed as her own.

It’s still a few minutes to show time, so I get out my own programmes.

They’re made in exactly the same way. A single piece of paper, arranged in a letter fold, to form six pages. One has the libretto. The other the credits. They’re nicely designed. And printed on good paper. I’m rather happy with them, until I remember that I paid over three quid for these things and then I feel a little ripped off. These are freesheets. Or at least, they should be freesheets. What counts as a programme note in this thing was written by the composer. At most, I would charge a pound for them. In a concession to the pleasing layout and nice paperstock.

Still feeling a little outraged, the doors close and the lights dim.

The lady on the stage gets up slowly, packing away her programmes and fussing around in her bag before finally going back to her seat and sitting herself down.

We begin.

The role of Marie Stopes seems to be being sung by a counter-tenor, which… fine. But also… why? I mean, Feargal Mostyn-Williams is great. And has a name I most heartfully approve of. But not quite sure why he is here. Is this for musical reasons? I really hope it’s for musical reasons. And not some bizarre idea that an opera entirely sung by women would be a bad thing. And let's not even touch on the single character with education and authority being gender swapped to male…

Anyway, Marie Stropes is being sung by a counter-tenor, and the whole thing is rather depressing. The past was, like, really bad. The present isn’t all that great either. But the past was worse.

Jess Dandy and Alexa Mason hand out pamphlets to the front row.

The person sitting in front of me gives hers a cursory look before dropping it under her seat.

Ungrateful wretch.

Forty-five minutes of death and pain later, we reach the end.

We applaud.

The cast wave up two more people. The creatives I’m guessing. They all link hands down the apron and bow. First to one side of the room. Then the other.

The lights come up.

It’s time to go.

Except no one is leaving.

The woman sitting in front of me gets up and goes over to talk to one of the musicians. There’s lots of cries of “how are youuuuu, it’s been agessss,” around the room.

I reach under the chair and grab the pamphlet, flipping it open to see what was inside.

Nothing.

I lay it reverently on the chair, hoping the owner comes back to claim it.

As for me, I’ve got another show to get to.

My row is still crowded, so I have to inch my way around the back, avoiding the crowded groups determined to block every possible route of escape.

I make it though.

Past the dead woodlouse, up the escalator, across that cake stand and out into the sunshine.

I breath in the claggy traffic-fumed air. One more show. Then I can go home and sleep.

Let’s do this thing.

The Voice of God is lost in Hell

After whinging and complaining about the ticket prices at the Hampstead Theatre when I was here last time, I’m back, in the main house, and the somewhat proud owner of a fully bought and paid for ticket. And only twenty-five quid, which, while not exactly a bargain, is definitely on the right side of almost reasonable.

Anyway, it’s the first production in the new AD’s first season. And Roxana Silbert has programmed a play with a title so striking, I just had to book myself in: The King of Hell’s Palace. I mean, come on. That sounds really me, doesn’t it?

As I step through the glass doors, I instantly feel ten years younger. I have a spring in my step and am filled with the joyous optimism of youth. It’s very disconcerting.

I try to enjoy it. It’s not often that I, being in my… don’t make me say it… mid-thirties now, get to be the youngest person in the room. But bar a few shiny-looking ushers, I am a mere child in comparison to the rest of tonight’s crowd.

I bounce my way over to the box office counter, side-stepping to avoid a very elderly man who is shuffling past at such a lilt I’m fearful he won’t make it to the other side.

Thankfully, we both make it to our destinations, and I give the nearest box officer my name, and he pulls the Ss free from the ticket box.

“Can you just confirm your postcode?” he asks.

I can. And do.

He unfolds the ream and inspects it. “You’ve got a programme voucher,” he says, tearing it free. This is news to me, I must have felt ballin’ when I bought this ticket. Still, it saves me fifty pee, and three quid isn’t bad at all for the hefty programme he hands me with a cheerful “here you go!”

“You’re entering through door number one,” he goes on, pointing to the doorway at the end of the gangway just next to us. It is indeed marked with a huge number one. Two number ones, actually. One handing down from the ceiling, and another affixed to the wall. This doorway isn’t shy about showing it’s dominance.

I get out my phone to take a photo and one of those shiny young ushers freezes just as she was about to step into my shot.

“It’s okay,” I tell her.

She dithers, not wanting to ruin my photo.

“Really, it’s fine,” I assure her, waving her across. And with that, she belts her way across the walkway, diving through the premiere door in order to keep the inconvenience of her presence to a minimum.

Bless.

I have a flick through of the programme. They’ve changed since I was here last. Paper is thicker, and uncoated. The binding is perfect rather than saddle stitched. This place has upped its game. The programmes look well fancy now.

One of the box officers calls over a front of house. She has a radio. I’m thinking we’ve got a duty manager in the vicinity.

“Can you tell the voice of god to announce the house is open?” asks the box officer.

The suspected duty manager duly makes the request and a few seconds later…

“The house is now open,” comes god’s voice over the sound system. “May I remind you…” but the rest of her message to us mortals is lost in the hubbub of the foyer. I just hope I remember whatever we needed to be reminded of.

I decide to go in before I forget anything else.

Down the gangway that takes me right over the foyer of the downstairs theatre, past the side of the curved hull of the theatre, and through door one.

There’s a ticket checker in here.

“First row of this section, just up the stairs,” he says, indicating the way.

I follow his directions, going up the short series of steps that take me towards the back of the stalls.

It's like a mini balcony back here. Slightly raised from the rest of the stalls, and yes, I'm in the front row of it - contained behind a dividing wall.

"'Scuse me. Sorry. Do you mind?" I say as I inch my way through to my seat.

An older man, looks up at me as I approach. "Are you...?" He points to the empty space next to him.

"No," I tell him. "I'm a bit further on. Sorry," I had as he disgruntedly gets to his feet.

In my seat I get down to the business of getting play-ready. Jacket off. Glasses on. Check my phone...

"There must be a way to knock them out," says the old man's wife, giving me some serious side-eye. "Theatres should do something. Stop the signal."

"Phones are always going off," agrees the old man.

I roll my eyes. My phone is on silent. It's been on silent since 2007. No one under the age of fifty has a ringtone nowadays.

But nice to know that I'm sitting next to people that would rather theatres indulge in illegal phone jamming then put up with the odd noise from someone who never managed to convince their grandkids how to change the settings on their phone.

I put my phone on airplane mode and shove it away in my bag.

I have a bloody good view of the stage. Almost in the middle and with no heads blocking the way. I can see the whole stage. Even the thrusty bit sticking out into the stalls. There's a travellator there. No, wait. There are two travellators there, running all the way to a pair of doors at the back of the set. I'm not sure about this. I've seen my fair share of travellators on stage before. It's almost never good news. Still, I've got some excellent legroom here. Lots of it. Time to get comfy.

I lean back and wriggle my shoulders. Hmm. No, that's no right. I pull my jacket free from behind me, shove it under my seat, and try again.

Yeah. No. There's still something there.

I shift forward and look behind me.

Sticking out of the back of the seat is what I can only describe as a bolster cushion. It juts out, like the arch support of an orthopaedic shoe. I can only imagine its existence is designed to sit within the small of the back, but my spine does not want to conform. I try again, first sitting up really tall, and then slouching back down, trying to work out whether I am too short or too tall for the anatomy of these seats. Neither seems to work. There is clearly something very wrong with my backbone.

Too late to worry about it now. The play is starting. We're flung back in time. To the 90s. In China. After making it through the Great Famine, everyone is determined to make it rich. The peasants are selling their plasma, and the city-folk are more than happy to buy it. Even if they don't have enough centrifuges in the clinics to keep all the blood separate before pumping it back into bodies.

In a fit of dancing exuberance, a red baseball cap goes flying into the audience. During the interval, a front-rower retrieves it, laying it carefully on the thrust part of the stage so that it can be retrieved by a stage manager.

My neighbour returns and immediately gets her phone out. I consider making a comment about how theatres really should do something about blocking signals within the auditorium, but I'm tired, and I finally managed to find a position in this seat where the back cushion isn't trying to paralyse me.

She puts it away, and the second act starts.

A fever is spreading. But it can't be AIDS. AIDS doesn't exist in China, And it's illegal to say otherwise.

But the peasants are growing peonies. My absolute favourite flower. And there are thousands of them. In all the colours. Covering the stage with their blooms until it starts to look like a Pina Bausch performance.

I think I'm in heaven.

Or hell. I can't tell.

When Yin Yin's husband unpacks her suitcase, and finds five whole bottles of sriracha, well, I have never felt so seen. I wouldn't be fleeing the country without an adequate supply of the hot stuff either.

We make it through to the end, and not a single phone rings. Not even mine.

Turns out you can trust the masses to think for themselves. Sometimes.